


To Trust

by clairdeloon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt Harry Potter, Parental Severus Snape, Runaway Harry Potter, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, Smart Harry Potter, Suicide Attempt, Summer Before Hogwarts First Year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28613241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairdeloon/pseuds/clairdeloon
Summary: Harry Potter is located in London in the dead of night. How exactly did he end up there, and what has he been doing? Well, any kid with half a brain knows not to talk to strangers.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 384
Kudos: 1111





	1. Streetlamps (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of my first ever fanfiction, which was originally posted back in 2014 on potionsandsnitches.org. I have made note of this on my original fic to verify that it was written by the same person.
> 
> I am very open to constructive criticism and am eager to hear your thoughts. I hope you enjoy, and please heed the tags.

A small, black haired boy sat cross-legged at the end of a silent, dark alleyway dimly lit by a few ancient street lamps. He rolled a small object from one hand to the other, which were mostly obscured by the overlong sleeves of his dark-colored jacket. The rest of his body remained perfectly still, green eyes glowing strangely in the moonlight, staring straight ahead unblinkingly. To an onlooker, had there been one, he may have appeared almost statuesque, only the slow, deliberate movement of his hands proving otherwise.

The silence was suddenly broken by a muted clicking sound, after which one streetlamp promptly blew out. This was not a strange occurrence; the streetlamps were long past their prime. The boy immediately stiffened, however, his eyes darting rapidly from left to right. There was another click, and a second lamp blew out. The boy tensed, if possible, even further, and he rose swiftly from his seated position. His gaze settled upon something at the other end of the narrow alleyway, which gradually made itself known to be a tall, thin figure swathed in robes, which fluttered slightly in the gentle breeze of the cool summer’s night.

The figure raised a long arm, pressing down on a small object clutched in its hand, and the third and final streetlamp went out, leaving the alleyway in near complete darkness. A long, thin, sticklike object was then drawn and flicked, and a bright ball of light appeared at its tip. The sudden brightness revealed the figure’s face to be one of an elderly man with a wrinkled, grandfatherly face sporting small, half-moon shaped glasses. The eyes behind them were a clear, twinkling bright blue, and they were focused upon the small, black-haired boy at the other end of the alley.

The expression on the man’s face seemed wistful, as though he was reminiscing over an occurrence long past. "Déjà vu,” he mumbled to himself, then appeared to pull himself back to the present. After gazing searchingly at the small boy for a few moments, the elderly man smiled. 

“Ah… Harry,” he said softly, drawing closer to the boy, the confidence in his gait belying his years.

The boy remained where he was, fingering something in the pocket of his worn jeans, tense as a coiled spring.

The elderly man spoke again. “I’ve been looking for you for quite a few days, Harry. I’m glad to find you safe.”

The boy twitched slightly, but said nothing, apparently content to stare piercingly at the man.

“This is quite a dangerous area,” the man continued, clearly unperturbed by the boy’s silence. “It is quite fortunate that you have not come to harm.”

Again, the boy did not respond, but he took a small step backwards.

The elderly man lost his smile, replaced by a sorrowful expression. “I’m terribly sorry about your relatives, Harry,” he said gently. “To lose the ones we love is painful beyond words.”

A strange expression crossed the boy’s face fleetingly before returning to a determined blankness. He then finally spoke.

“Who are you, and what do you want from me?”

The man looked sad, and, if possible, even older than he had before.

“Why, Harry,” he said, “with your family gone, you surely need a place to stay. After all, it will be nearly three months until you begin your schooling. I have therefore made arrangements for you to reside in the home of a trusted colleague of mine until that time.”

“You didn’t answer the first part of my question.”

“Ah, alas, you are correct. In my old age, my thoughts tend to wander, often down strange paths.” The man smiled again, as though attempting to make the boy feel more at ease. The boy looked unamused, however, and continued to stare at the man, patiently awaiting his answer.

“I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts.”

The boy raised his eyebrows, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. “What’s that got to do with me?”

The elderly man looked surprised. “Surely you have heard of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry. Did your relatives not inform you of its existence?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly, and one could almost hear the mechanics of his mind whirring at top speed. He remained silent, however, his stare intensifying.

The man sighed. “Clearly not. I admit I did not foresee that occurrence, for all my supposed omniscience.” The man seemed to be talking more to himself than the boy, who continued to gaze unblinkingly at him.

“Did you aunt tell you nothing of your heritage, child?”

A flash of understanding crossed the boy’s face. “If you’re talking about me being magical, I’m aware of that.”

The man looked relieved. “I suppose she simply preferred not to discuss the matter with you at length?”

“You could say that.” The boy’s answer was somewhat sharp, a hint of irony flavoring his tone.

“Well, Harry,” said the man. “Hogwarts is a school which houses many children like you, where they learn to develop and control their magical powers. If I’m not mistaken, you should be receiving your letter of acceptance within the next two months. You will be turning eleven this July, as I recall?”

The boy nodded slowly.

“I’m glad we cleared that up, then.” He dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a handful of small, yellow sweets. “Lemon drop? I have found them to be quite tasty, and rather soothing as well.” The man sucked on one slowly, momentarily gazing off into the distance. “Forgive an old man’s ramblings, but they say the sense of smell serves as a powerful connection to one’s emotions. As taste is closely related to the sense of smell, it is unsurprising that food can be such a comfort. ”

The boy shook his head, eyes tracking every one of the man’s movements

“No? Ah, well, all the more for me, I suppose,” he said, popping another into his mouth.

“Now, back to the matter at hand. I _do_ tend to ramble,” he continued. “Why did you leave your relatives’ home upon their deaths, Harry? It seems a rather rash thing to do.”

“I didn't.”

“You did not run away from home?” Dumbledore asked, seemingly puzzled. “Then how did you come to be in London, child?”

This time, the boy did not answer, his gaze darting away.

“Did someone bring you here?” Dumbledore asked. “There were no signs…” his voice trailed off.

The boy tensed, his arms drawn unconsciously over his chest.

“What’s it to you?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Very well,” he said, “I suppose I will leave it for now. Will you consent to join me, Harry, so I can escort you to your new home?”

The boy looked, for a moment, slightly amused, though there was little true mirth in his expression. “They say you shouldn’t take rides with strangers, especially the ones who offer you candy.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “You are correct, Harry, your caution is most admirable. Am I truly a stranger, though?”

“Yes.”

Dumbledore, though saddened, did not seem unduly surprised by his response.

“I knew your parents quite well, Harry, and they entrusted me with your safety should anything prevent them from doing so themselves.”

The boy's expression shifted, then, into what could only be described as pained, though muted, as though it had not been given the space to be fully realized. It made him appear smaller, somehow, as though he'd shrunk in on himself despite not moving a muscle.

That change was not lost on the older man, whose mouth twisted slightly, as though he'd tasted something bitter. “Your parents loved you dearly, Harry, and all they wanted for you is to live a long, happy life.”

The boy drew in a breath as though to speak, but he then closed his mouth firmly, pressing his lips together.

Dumbledore studied the boy for a moment, a sad, yet fond look on his face. “You do so remind me of your mother, Harry. You have her eyes, but I’m sure you knew that.”

The boy’s hands clenched, and his eyes darted, unsure of where to land their gaze. He then seemed to school his emotions, settling for a mask of indifference.

Dumbledore did not appear fooled, but he said no more on the topic.

“Would you join me, Harry? I assure you, your mother was quite the formidable witch, and should you come to any harm in my hands, she would no doubt find a way to render me bound and unconscious, alive or not.”

Dumbledore waited patiently, as the boy appeared to undergo a brief debate in his mind. He seemed to come to a conclusion, and took a careful step towards the older man. Dumbledore, pleased, held out his right arm. “You will want to grasp my arm, Harry, as we will be utilizing a method of travel known as Apparition.”

The boy slowly reached out a hand, hesitantly wrapping his fingers around the man’s forearm.

“Brace yourself, child. The trip may be… unsettling.”

The old man and the black-haired boy then promptly vanished with a faint pop.


	2. Good Instincts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry couldn’t quite say what had possessed him to come here, when every bone in his body had been screaming at him to flee the moment that odd man had appeared. Who in their right mind would willingly take off with some creepy old man who claimed to know their parents? No one, that’s who.

Harry tried not to retch when he and Dumbledore landed, for once thankful that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

“All right, Harry?” asked Dumbledore, brushing off some imaginary dust from his cloak. “The sensation can be quite disconcerting.”

Harry nodded jerkily.

“Very well, then, if you would just follow me…”

Harry’s mind was racing, struggling to accommodate the recent influx of information he had received. A school of magic? People looking for him? The Dursleys dead?

Harry couldn’t quite say what had possessed him to come here, when every bone in his body had been screaming at him to flee the moment that odd man had appeared. Who in their right mind would willingly take off with some creepy old man who claimed to know their parents? No one, that’s who. Even if the man had been telling the truth, that Harry’s parents had entrusted him with his safety, this Dumbledore character hadn’t exactly been doing a bang-up job of it, had he?

_Sure, show up when the Dursleys drop dead, never mind that I haven’t set foot in their house since forever._

The idea that their deaths would hurt him was laughable. Clearly, this man knew nothing.

But despite all that, something told Harry that Dumbledore meant him no harm, or at least no _immediate_ harm. Harry did have good instincts; indeed, they had saved his life more than once, and right now, said instincts were telling him to go with this man.

And a magical school?

_I knew I had powers, but there are that many others like me? It sounds like there’s a whole community of magical people; there would have to be if there’s a school._

Harry wasn’t stupid; he knew he couldn’t be the only person with powers, but an established community, that was something else. But why had he been completely cut off from this community? Why show up now?

Harry bit back a snort as he recalled one of Dumbledore’s questions. _Did your aunt tell you nothing of your heritage?_

Petunia telling him anything beyond his chores for the day? Bloody unlikely.

Harry shook off the thought in favor of scanning his surroundings.

It appeared that they were walking down a dark, unassuming road, with a few widespread, modest, but well-kept houses. Harry did not let down his guard, however; he knew that they were not in this particular location for nothing. There had to be something different about this place, or they would not be here.

Sure enough, Harry finally caught a glimpse of something odd in the distance. It was a slight glow, a shimmering mist, which appeared to surround a vast, empty area of land at the end of the road. As he and Dumbledore drew gradually closer, Harry got the sense that only they could see it, though he could not say how he knew.

When they reached the edge of the mist, Harry hesitated, glancing at Dumbledore briefly before looking away.

_For all I know, this is some noxious gas that will knock me out or kill me soon as I come in contact with it._

In answer to Harry’s unasked question, Dumbledore spoke. "This energy is composed of a variety of protective spells preventing outsiders from accessing, or even locating this area.”

 _That must be why he’s brought me here, because of the protection_ , Harry thought. _Something tells me that whoever who lives here suffers from a moderate to severe case of paranoia. Unless they're in hiding… but then why would it be safe for me to be here? Unless I’m not really meant to be kept safe.._

Harry watched carefully as Dumbledore drew the sticklike object from the sleeve of his robes and waved it over the mist in a complex motion before turning to Harry. “I will need you to submerge your hand so that the magic may recognize you and allow you to pass.”

_Sure, I’ll just stick my hand into some unknown substance and see what happens. That would be rule number one of what not to do. Or rule number two, I should say, as I’ve already broken rule number one, which is to take off with candy-toting strangers who wave sticks around._

Dumbledore seemed to take note of Harry’s doubtful expression and smiled slightly, immersing his own hand into the mist. Reassured, if only somewhat, Harry stuck his hand into the mist, half-braced for severe pain, and was relieved to feel only a faint tingling.

“Very well, Harry, that will do,” said Dumbledore. “You may now step through.”

Harry waited until Dumbledore had passed through before doing so himself. He then did a double-take, shut his eyes tightly, then looked again. What had recently been a large, barren piece of land had transformed into a large, well-maintained property surrounding a moderately-sized house of gray stone. As he followed Dumbledore down the narrow walkway leading toward the house, which was lined with trees and odd-looking plants, Harry looked further, and realized that the surrounding land seemed to extend indefinitely, with no apparent end in sight.

_This makes no sense, how can magic be this unlimited? It would completely upset the rules of nature, the balance of the universe, the entire existence of-_

Why even bother?

As they drew closer to the entrance of the home, Harry felt the beginnings of anxiety creeping into his chest, growing steadily more intrusive as they reached the entrance, and Dumbledore knocked twice on the door. It almost immediately opened. Harry carefully controlled his breathing.

A tall, lithe man clothed in dark robes appeared in the doorway. His face was long, angular, and pale, as though he rarely ventured outdoors. He had lank black hair with a greasy sheen that brushed his shoulders, and a long, hooked nose. Yet his eyes were his most disconcerting feature. They were deep-set, and so dark that the pupils could barely be distinguished. The truly notable aspect of them, however, was their almost magnetic quality; Harry felt compelled to stare into them, and, once he did, was hard-pressed to tear away his gaze.

_He doesn’t like me._

It wasn’t hard to tell; dislike and irritation seemed to radiate from the man in waves.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and the man finally looked away.

“Thank you, Severus, for accommodating us at this late hour, and with such short notice, I might add.”

The man twitched slightly, but other than that, made no acknowledgement of Dumbledore’s statement. Dumbledore seemed unbothered, as though he was long accustomed to such treatment, and turned towards Harry. “Harry, this is Professor Severus Snape. He is the much respected potions master of Hogwarts, and the head of Slytherin House as well.”

_Slytherin? Am I supposed to know what that means..._

“Severus has graciously acquiesced to having you here for the next few months until you begin school, Harry. I’m sure you will be most pleased with the accommodations.”

_Well, that’s not saying much; any accommodation is a step-up for me._

Harry nodded to the Snape person, and the man responded with a twitch of the shoulder.

“There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you, Severus, so if you would…”

Snape extended an arm in an exaggerated, somewhat mocking motion, and Harry followed Dumbledore through the doorway.

He looked around. They had just entered a modest sitting room with a couple of navy colored couches, and a small table at its center piled with books. The room was dimly lit; there was a fireplace at the far end of the room with a few dying embers, and a lamp attached to the wall glowed faintly. The floor was made of dark wood, and bookshelves composed of similar material lined the walls.

Harry looked up as Dumbledore spoke again. “If you wouldn’t mind, Harry, Severus and I have some things to discuss, so if you would remain in here, we shall return shortly.”

Without looking at Harry, Snape pointed to one of the couches, then immediately swept from the room with a swish of his black robes. Dumbledore smiled at Harry, and, with a sigh, followed Snape at a more sedated pace.

Harry waited until he heard the click of a door being closed, then crept soundlessly toward the room the men had entered and pressed his ear to the door.

“Severus,” Dumbledore was saying, “I am well aware of your feelings on this matter, and I assure you, if there was any other way-”

“Yes, I am quite aware that there are no other options,” Snape hissed furiously. “I would never have entertained the thought of agreeing otherwise.”

 _Not too pleased with this arrangement, is he? Dumbledore must’ve made him. What hold does he have over this Snape person, anyway? I suppose I_ am _here because of those protections, then. Funnily enough, I don’t find that very comforting._

“If you would just keep an open mind, Severus, I’ve no doubt that you will find-”

“Enough, Albus, I have agreed. I will do my part. Just do not expect me to break out in paroxysms of ecstasy...”

Harry drew back from the door and retuned to the sitting room, seating himself carefully on a couch. This situation was appearing to worsen by the moment. What had he gotten himself into? Good instincts or not, his presence being forced upon a rather forbidding looking man who had no interest in taking him in, and clearly had something against him.

 _Not one of my more brilliant moves. This man can do whatever he wants to me, as long as he doesn’t seriously injure or kill me. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. Or maybe I was hoping that this would improve things somehow. Connections to my parents and all that. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stop hoping for pathetic things you know you’ll never get. It’s weak. Weakness gets you_ dead _._

With some effort, Harry pushed the thoughts back. This wasn’t helping. He needed an out; there was no way he could stay here. He considered running, but he doubted that he would get very far. He probably would have to leave the same way he came in, with a wand and some magic spell, which was obviously beyond his capabilities. Anyway, Dumbledore would just find him again and tighten the protections.

Now that he thought about it, Dumbledore could have easily forced him to come here if he hadn’t agreed. It was just smarter to make him think he had a choice.

No, running would be a senseless move. He would have to simply wait and feel out the situation before figuring out his next step.

Harry heard the door open, and he immediately stood, muscles tensed.

“Well, Harry,” Dumbledore said serenely, “I have intruded upon Severus’ hospitality for quite long enough, so this is where I take my leave.”

He extended a hand toward Harry, who suppressed a jerk, clasping Dumbledore’s hand before drawing back as quickly as he could without appearing rude.

“I may return here at some point in the summer, but if I do not, I will see you in school come September.”

Harry nodded to Dumbledore, and watched as he strode soundlessly out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Inhaling slowly, Harry then turned to face Snape. He met a sneering expression of hostility.

_I wonder how many more days I have to live-_

"Potter,” Snape spat, “as I will be enjoying the dubious pleasure of your company for the foreseeable future, allow me to make a few things quite plain.”

Harry swallowed, unable to suppress the sensation of dread that was spreading throughout his body, making his hands feel sweaty and his eyes uncomfortably dry. He directed his gaze towards the bridge of Snape’s nose, so he would not have to see the man’s eyes.

“I am a solitary man. I am quite unaccustomed to and disinterested in having infantile brats run amok in my home. I expect strict obedience and exemplary behavior. I will not tolerate running, shouting, whining, or rudeness of any kind. You will keep your possessions where they belong, and if I discover anything of yours that is not where it should be, you will not see it again.”

Snape abruptly swept from the room, and Harry hurried after him. When they reached the end of the darkened hallway, Snape paused next to a door. “This, Potter, is the entrance to my potions laboratory,” Snape said. “It is entirely off-limits to you. Though I’ve no doubt that the Boy-Who-Lived feels entitled to go wherever he may please and fancies himself fully qualified to cope with all things magical, if you venture past this door, the consequences may have you wishing for death.”

_Well, that sounds promising. And who the bloody hell is the Boy-Who-Lived?_

Harry stumbled after Snape as he swept down the hall and up the stairs. The man opened a door and pointed him inside.

“Now, it is currently a quarter past one in the morning.” Snape folded his arms. “Professor Dumbledore has taken the liberty of arranging provisions for you, as it seems you deem it beneath you to keep track of your own belongings.”

_Sure, that’s right. I've somehow managed to misplace all my belongings…_

“There is an en suite bathroom in this room. I suggest you bathe.” Harry held himself very still as he felt Snape’s eyes rake over him, the man’s lip curling in disgust, “and change into those.” He pointed to a pile of neatly stacked clothing on the bed.

“I will expect you in the kitchen for breakfast at half-past eight. Do not keep me waiting.” With that said, Snape swept out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

_Did I offend this bloke in another lifetime? This is really, really not good._

Harry felt his heart rate speed up, and he struggled to control his breathing. He had been in this situation before; he had run from it, chosen to live in constant discomfort and danger rather than remain at the mercy of people who despised his existence, and now, as a result of his stupidity, he was right back where he started. To make things worse, something told Harry that it would not be nearly as easy to get away this time.

_This guy’s a wizard; he’ll be ten steps ahead of me. He probably knows every trick in the book. No, stop. Hyperventilation is an incredibly lame way to die. Breathe._

Harry, with some effort, managed to calm himself enough to think rationally. Figuring that he may as well take advantage of the situation, he found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on the bed, and entered the bathroom.

He blinked. Harry had not been in a proper bathroom in over a year. It was small, but pristine, lined with pale gray tile, and he wasted no time in procuring the necessary toiletries before turning on the shower.

Harry basked in the sensation of warm water washing away layers of accumulated dirt and blood from his body, ignoring the sting of water spraying against his many scrapes. He could not remember the last time he had taken a shower; in recent times, the extent of his bathing habits had been a quick scrubbing down in a nearby public bathroom. He scrubbed his hair viciously, rubbing out the caked dirt and blood.

When Harry finished his shower, he felt almost human, and he quickly dried off and dressed.

_I could get used to this. A shower, clean clothes, an actual bed. If I can just get Snape to forget my existence, I’ll be set._

Infinitely more relaxed, Harry retrieved his penknife from the pocket of his ragged jeans, slipped it under his pillow, and settled into the bed, wrapping himself in the thick blanket. Suddenly exhausted, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please don't hesitate to drop a comment. 
> 
> Next up: Harry settles in, and waits for the other shoe to drop.


	3. Too Good to be True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry clutched his penknife in his fist, his grip so tight it hurt. He knew this was too good to be true. There was no way that he could be well-fed, have the freedom to roam around the house and grounds, and be pretty much left alone while in the home of an adult who hated him. Harry knew that the other shoe would drop; the question simply was, when?

Harry awoke abruptly the next morning, and he was out of bed and halfway across the room before he remembered where he was.

As his heart rate gradually slowed to a normal pace, Harry looked around and noticed a clock on the wall, which dictated the time to be nearly eight. He was surprised that he’d slept undisturbed. He rarely slept for more than three or four hours at a stretch, and he’d just slept a solid six hours.

_I suppose it was the shower, and the warm bed, and the blanket, and the closed door, and the clean clothes…_

Harry luxuriated in the use of the bathroom, then found some clothes in the pile that Dumbledore had supposedly provided. Harry wondered where Dumbledore had procured them from, and why he had even bothered.

_Maybe he’ll hold this over me somehow, maybe they’ve been tampered with, laced with poison or-_

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t as though these people were short of murder methods, and murder-by-clothing would have to be one the more ridiculous ones they could think of. 

Dressed, for once in clean, well-fitting clothing, Harry slipped his penknife into the pocket of his new jeans before making his way downstairs. He tried not to think about what Snape would do if he found out about it. The man would probably assume he was planning on slashing the couches apart. Or murdering him in his sleep.

Shaking off the thought, Harry chewed his bottom lip, trying to walk down the stairs as soundlessly as possible. Snape _had_ told him to come to breakfast, but did that mean he’d actually be allowed to eat? He had to almost physically push back the remembered agony of days without meals, forced to cook for and serve the Dursleys, inhaling the succulent scents through the vents on the locked door of his cupboard-

Harry winced when the bottom stair creaked, fighting the anxiety that began to take hold. It would have been easier not to be fed at all then to be told to come to breakfast and have it snatched away. But Snape certainly hadn’t given him a say in the matter. 

After trying a few doors, (Snape hadn’t exactly given him the grand tour), Harry found the kitchen. It was small and, like the rest of the house, dimly lit, but there were delicious smells wafting from the circular table in the center of the room where Snape was seated, face hidden behind a newspaper, which, Harry noticed, was hovering in midair, unsupported. Harry walked cautiously towards the table and sat opposite Snape.

He felt acutely uncomfortable as he sat, unwilling to serve himself, but unable to ignore the hunger. The table was set with plates of food and a pitcher of milk, all fresher than any food Harry had had access to in recent memory.

“The food is not here for decoration.” He jumped slightly when Snape spoke. “Is the food not to your liking? Is the Boy-Who-Lived accustomed to gourmet feasts?” Snape's face was still obscured by his paper, but it wasn’t very hard to picture the look on his face.

Harry did not hesitate; he hastily filled his plate, and it was all he could do not to inhale the whole lot at once.

_Pace yourself. If you spew all over the floor, you’ll never see the light of day again._

So Harry ate slowly, choosing to savor the burst of flavor that filled his mouth. Warm toast dripping with butter. Hot, flavorful eggs, and fresh fruit. Cold, sweet milk sliding refreshingly down his throat. Harry had _never_ eaten such good food as far back as he could remember. The best he could usually get was old leftovers from the trash outside various restaurants, and the occasional candy bar he nicked from the drugstore. And back at the Dursleys, Harry had been lucky if he got-

_Stop. Thinking. About. Them._

Harry tried valiantly to clear his plate, but midway through, he had to admit defeat; if he ate another bite, he doubted he would be able to keep it down.

Snape abruptly set down his newspaper with a wave of his hand, directing the full force of his glare at Harry. Harry stared back, fiddling with his fingers nervously under the table.

“Potter,” he said irritably. “I will be spending the majority of the day in my potions laboratory, as I do most days. As I previously articulated, you are not permitted to be anywhere in its vicinity.

_Are you repeating that for your health?_

Harry couldn’t say anything, not at risk of his imminent demise, but Snape couldn’t stop him from thinking. He set his jaw, refusing to avert his gaze.

“Therefore, you have a few options. You are permitted to make use of the library, which is located down the hall to the left.”

Harry perked up slightly at that. A library?

_This changes things! Books. Must read books. Must figure out what the bloody hell is going on here._

“Additionally, you are permitted on the grounds, provided that you are indoors before dark. As said grounds are protected by powerful spells surrounding all sides, I _strongly_ suggest you refrain from attempting to bypass them.” He gave Harry a look that threatened a painful death if he dared to try.

“Furthermore, while it is no concern of mine at which hour you opt to retire,” Snape said with a derisive look, “you will be in your bedroom by half-past eleven. I will not have you traipsing throughout my house at all hours of the night.” He paused for a moment, dark eyes boring into Harry’s face like daggers. “Am I understood?” 

Harry nodded. This was better than he had expected. It really seemed as though Snape was intent on ignoring his existence, which suited Harry perfectly.

Snape spoke again, his caustic tone cutting through the air. “Lunch will be at one, and dinner at six. Far be it from me to care if you choose not to attend. However, I will not tolerate you wreaking havoc in my kitchen should you feel a sudden urge to satiate yourself later on, so I do suggest you show up.”

Harry nodded again.

“I _will_ be alerted if you get into any trouble, so I strongly suggest you stay _out_ of it, as I will be most displeased should my work be interrupted. You have been warned. Is that perfectly clear?” Snape looked positively ferocious.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get out of my sight.”

Harry immediately rose, carrying his plate towards the sink.

“Leave it,” Snape snapped.

Harry jerked slightly, then shrugged and set his plate back down on the table. He made his way to the door, pausing before he existed. He had been fed, after all.

“Thank you.”

Snape grunted, hidden once more behind the paper.

Harry then left the kitchen in search of the library, immensely relieved to be out of Snape’s company. He found it more easily than he had the kitchen, and his spirits could not help but lift when he opened the door. The room was large; much larger than it should have been, considering the layout of the house. Rows of bookshelves crammed with copious volumes filled the room, reaching nearly toward the ceiling. There was a corner occupied by some comfortable looking armchairs and small tables supplied with writing materials.

Harry had, in fact, taken refuge in public libraries on many occasions, both when he’d lived with the Dursleys, and after he had run away. Harry liked the calming atmosphere, the quiet, the knowledge, and the almost magical spark he felt in the air. Libraries had always been his sanctuary. 

Harry had had few friends in his life. He much preferred books. Books were predictable, helpful, and often funny. They couldn’t hurt him, not like _people_ did. But it was something more that drew him. It was the escape they provided, the one place where Harry could forget everything, could forget who and where he was, could stop being Harry altogether. They were proof that maybe one day things would be different, that maybe he could be happy; perhaps he did actually experience a level of happiness as he read, despite that fact that he knew it wasn’t real, and, sooner or later, he would have to face reality and all the pain that came with it.

Harry wasted no time in gathering as many books as he could, and he soon had a tall pile of books stacked on one of the tables. He settled into the armchair beside it, and opened the first book in reach.

Three hours later, Harry’s head was spinning. Rubbing his stinging eyes, he attempted to sort through all of his recently acquired information. Apparently, according to _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ he _was_ the Boy-Who-Lived. Apparently, his parents had _not_ died in a car crash (not that he’d really believed that), but they had been murdered by some sociopathic maniac called Voldemort during the first wizarding war of Britain. Then he’d tried to kill Harry, but for some reason had not succeeded, and ended up, to use the phrase, impaled upon his own sword. Thus Harry was named the Boy-Who-Lived, and celebrated all across the wizarding world.

Harry felt strange. Though he’d suspected that his parents’ deaths had been magically related in some way, he’d never imagined something like this.

_How could this be possible? I’m famous? No wonder Snape thinks I’m some sort of narcissistic terror. But I was only a baby when it happened. It was probably something my parents did._

Harry also noticed that none of the books actually explained what had happened to Voldemort. Terms such as ‘vanquished’, ‘defeated’, ‘conquered’, and ‘vanished’ were used, but never the word ‘dead’.

_Maybe he didn’t die. What happened to him, then? Where has he been?_

Then it hit him. This must be why he needed protection. Voldemort was still alive and wanted revenge on Harry for defeating him. And maybe…

 _Maybe he thinks I could do it again. Maybe_ everyone _thinks I could do it again._

Well, at least the Boy-Who-Lived mystery had been cleared up, though, admittedly, it only made Harry feel worse. 

About Hogwarts, on the other hand, Harry was intrigued. The school had been around for thousands of years, and it was considered to be one of the most elite schools of magic there was, or, at least, that was what _Hogwarts, a History_ had said. He had ascertained what Dumbledore had meant by Slytherin as well. Apparently, students were sorted into four houses, all with unique traits, Slytherin being one of them.

Harry had to raise his eyebrows at the notion of Snape being a head of house. He didn’t exactly seem like the nurturing type.

Beginning to feel restless, Harry closed the book over a bit of parchment so he wouldn’t lose his place, and got up, wincing at the ache in his limbs from being in the same position for hours. He hurried out of the library and towards the front door as quickly as he could without running. It was a warm day, somewhat cloudy, and a slight breeze ruffled his hair. Feeling a sudden burst of energy, Harry ran as fast as he could, enjoying the sensation of running for its own sake. Finally out of breath, Harry stopped beside a sprawling tree and sat down underneath it, breathing hard, hands wrapped around his knees.

What was the point of it all? Harry had spent the past ten years uncared for, hungry, scared and utterly, utterly alone. He did not feel like a kid, he’d never been one, really; he’d never had the chance to enjoy any semblance of childhood. His innocence had been torn away from him before he’d learned to talk.

_And all this time, I was the famous savior of the wizarding world. It was here the whole time. I didn’t have to suffer, but I did anyway. The wizards left me to rot._

Not liking the direction in which his thoughts were going, Harry impatiently pushed them aside and got to his feet. It was probably nearly time for lunch, anyway. He headed back towards the house and into the kitchen, where Snape was, once again, seated at the table, concealed behind a newspaper.

Harry sat, and, this time, did not hesitate to help himself. Harry tried to pace himself, to chew slowly, but the food was just so _good._ Less than halfway through, Harry began to feel uncomfortably full. He reluctantly laid down his fork, and took a long draught of water.

Bad idea.

Harry felt an intense nausea rise up in his chest, and before he could so much as blink, he vomited all over the floor.

_I am dead. He’ll murder me, slowly and painfully. Why did I have to eat so fast? You complete. Utter. Idiot. He’ll never let you eat again, he’ll-_

“Potter.”

The sharp voice snapped Harry out of his panicked trance. He realized he was sitting frozen in position, eyes squeezed shut. He opened them slowly, and looked up. Snape was looking at him oddly.

“Are you quite well?” Snape asked, sounding annoyed.

Harry exhaled slowly, grimacing at the sour taste in his mouth, and nodded, reaching for some napkins.

“Stop.”

Harry immediately dropped the napkins. Snape then waved his wand in an exasperated motion, and the mess vanished.

“Are you well, Potter?” Snape asked again in a neutral, if slightly terse, tone.

“I- I’m fine-”

Harry started as Snape handed him a glass of water.

“ _Do_ attempt to drink more slowly, and we may be fortunate enough to avoid a repeat of such histrionics.”

Harry stared as the glass of water in his hand as though he’d never seen one before. His fingers were clenched so tightly around it that the veins on the back of his hand popped out.

Snape cleared his throat, and Harry pushed the glass to his lips in favor of dropping it on the floor. He drank slowly, the water soothing his burning throat, and noticed Snape looking at him appraisingly. Harry stared back waiting for… something. But Snape said nothing, eventually looking away and turning back toward his food.

 _He’s unpredictable. Unpredictable is bad. He was supposed to be_ angry.

He needed to get out of here.

Harry got up slowly, his eyes on Snape, half-expecting him to refuse to let him leave. But the man simply jerked his head and went back to his newspaper.

Harry opened his mouth, and he had to swallow several times to ease the constriction in his throat. “Th-thank you, sir.”

Snape looked at him oddly, then closed his eyes for a moment. “Do refrain from strenuous activities, Potter, if you will. We do not need a reenactment of today’s episode." The man’s tone was oddly bereft of its usual venom.

Harry nodded shakily and left the kitchen.

He didn’t know what to think. No one had ever tolerated his illnesses; he’d been locked away, denied treatment, and punished for daring to be ill, and Harry had learned long ago to suck it up and ignore it. Later, in the streets, that ability had served him well, as pain and discomfort had never prevented him from doing what needed to be done. Snape’s actions were foreign to him, and Harry did not know how to respond.

Caught up in his thoughts, Harry had barely noticed that he was now facing the door to the library. He returned to his chair, desperately eager to return to the comfortable familiarity of his books.

Before long, however, dinnertime crept up on him, and as much as Harry wanted to avoid facing the man after his… episode, it was only inevitable.

Harry entered the kitchen, where Snape was, once again seated, though his newspaper was resting on the table instead of hiding his face. Thinking that this could mean nothing good, Harry cautiously sat down, and noticed that, though Snape’s plate contained what appeared to be a steak, there was lighter fare set in front of Harry’s plate; toast, vegetables, and some sort of soup.

Had Snape had this prepared especially for Harry?

He wasted no time in filling his plate, and he glanced up briefly at the man before looking away and murmuring, “Thank you, sir.”

“Do not thank me,” Snape said sharply. “I merely wished to avoid having my dinner spoiled by the scent of bile.”

Harry’s chest tightened, and his heart began pounding in his ears. The fork clutched in his fist rattled faintly against the plate as his hand trembled, and he chanced a quick glance at Snape, pushing back against his seat and setting his feet on the floor, as though poised for flight.

A strange expression crossed Snape’s face. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to say something, but then closed it again, starting on his food. Harry followed his cue, and began to eat, careful to chew slowly, his shoulders slowly relaxing.

 _What the bloody hell is happening? Why is he being_ nice _?_

Harry knew Snape had only given him different food because he didn’t want to deal with a repeat of lunchtime, but he could have more easily avoided it by simply not allowing Harry to attend meals at all. Harry could not wrap his head around it, so he tried not to think about it in favor of focusing on his meal.

Later, in bed, Harry clutched his penknife in his fist, his grip so tight it hurt. He knew this was too good to be true. There was no way that he could be well-fed, have the freedom to roam around the house and grounds, and be pretty much left alone while in the home of an adult who hated him. Harry knew that the other shoe would drop; the question simply was, when?

***

_A large, beefy man is shoving him against a wall, fingers pressing down on his windpipe… burden… better off dead…_

_He chokes on the blood filling his mouth… He can’t breathe…_

_A glass slips from his hands, but before it hits the floor, it floats upwards back into his grip… He is yanked backwards and knocked to the ground… A heavy foot stomps down on his chest… Abnormality… Freakishness…_

_He is curled up behind an abandoned warehouse, eyes squeezed shut and palms pressed against his ears as the sound of gunshots reverberates around him…_

Harry awoke with a gasp. He trembled violently as he fumbled about wildly for his penknife, curling into a fetal position.

Apparently, the respite he’d had from his nightmares the night before had not been destined to last. Big surprise there.

Harry _hated_ the nighttime. During the day, it was easy to forget, to pretend that nothing had ever happened, to feel nothing at all. But at night, all the feelings and memories came back to haunt him, to taunt him, reminding him of his weakness, that he couldn’t rid himself of the feelings for good. Nighttime was when Harry felt the pain, the fear, the anger, and the knowledge that no one wanted him. And Harry hated himself for caring at all.

 _Stop being so bloody_ weak.

Harry suppressed a groan when he checked the clock, realizing that it was only four in the morning. He couldn’t leave the room now; Snape would not approve of him, to use his words, traipsing throughout his house at all hours of the night. So Harry tried to settle down, but he could practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his body, making his heart pound and his breaths short. He tried to think of other things, like the books he’d read, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not rid his mind of the images drifting menacingly across it. So Harry sat on the floor and amused himself by making his penknife float in midair, imagining painful deaths for everyone he hated.

_I wonder how the Dursleys died. Dumbledore didn’t say. Because he thought I already knew. Hope it was painful. I hope Hell actually does exist so they’ll continue to suffer for eternity. I hate them. Hate them hate them hate them HATE THEM._

“I hate them,” Harry said aloud.

The penknife dropped back onto the bed. The use of magic had tired him, exhausting him of the anger, and his emotions ebbed, retreating into the back of his mind, where they would remain, hidden and unnoticed, until he slept again.

By half-past six, Harry was dressed and down in the library in search of more books. Now that he had acquired a decent understanding of the workings of the magical community, he needed to learn about the workings of magic itself. Finally, Harry spotted a book that had potential near the top of the bookshelf.

 _Does Snape not want me to read it or something? Maybe it’s dangerous to know; maybe it’ll make_ me _dangerous-_

Harry considered dragging a chair over, but it didn’t seem high enough. Too bad. Harry wanted the book, and he was going to get it, one way or another. Glancing around once, Harry focused carefully, and slowly, the book slid off its shelf and floated downward, toward him. He was startled, however, when his feet began to leave the ground, floating up towards the shelf.

In his surprise, Harry lost his focus and went crashing to the floor, the book bouncing off his shoulder before hitting the ground. Testing his limbs carefully, Harry judged them to be only bruised, so he walked, limping slightly, over to his chair, book in hand.

 _Accidental magic explains all the weird stuff I do,"_ Harry thought, after finishing a chapter that discussed exactly that, _"but it did stop being accidental after a while, except when I was really angry. The book doesn’t say much about that. The stuff I do does generally seem to require a wand. Better keep it to myself, then. But a wand can be a weakness. What if it breaks, or if someone steals it? Is a wizard completely powerless, then? But the magic is inside a person, not a wand, so why is it even necessary? Why can't magic be channeled through a hand as easily?_

_Darn it, breakfast._

Harry hurried to the kitchen, despite the residual ache in his leg. He did want to eat, after all, and Snape would undoubtedly be extremely irritated if he came late.

He entered the kitchen and was surprised to find Snape look up as he entered, newspaper nowhere in sight. 

“Good of you to show up, Potter,” Snape said acerbically.

Harry said nothing, right hand clenched around the penknife in his pocket.

“Now, as the Hogwarts elves have been delivering meals since your arrival, it has been decided that I must take note of your apparently delicate dietary needs so they can be informed.” Snape looked as though he would rather be doing anything but.

 _He’s asking me about my_ dietary _needs? Next, he’ll be asking me how my day went. What am I supposed to say? That my previous eating habit consisted of a few scraps when I could find them?_

“Well?” Snape bit out.

“Er… I…” Harry’s voice trailed off. 

“Has your rudimentary grasp of the English language suddenly forsaken you?” Snape definitely sounded angry, now.

_No. No, what do I say? Stop panicking, you idiot. It’s not helping. Just say something. Anything._

“I don’t know.”

Snape gave him a look that was positively withering. “You don’t know?”

_I did just say that._

The fear Harry had been feeling slowly began to give way to annoyance. What did Snape want from him, anyway?

“I don’t know what my dietary needs are,” Harry said flatly. What else could he say?

Snape was looking at Harry calculatingly. Harry stared back, waiting for Snape to speak. Finally, he did, his face becoming a cold, uncaring mask. “Very well, you will continue to consume that which has been previously delivered for you by the elves. Sit.”

Harry sat, and filled his plate with the meal that had been delivered by the so-called elves.

“What do you mean by elves, sir?” Harry asked in a carefully neutral tone. Inside, he held his breath. Maybe he should have finished reading Hogwarts, A History before asking.

Snape looked somewhat irritated at being interrupted, but answered. “They are house elves; creatures that are wired to serve wizards in ways such as cooking and housekeeping. There is a large number of them working at Hogwarts. As I myself have little time nor inclination to cook, Professor Dumbledore has insisted on having elves deliver meals since your arrival.” The man inhaled sharply. “Have I satisfied your curiosity, Potter?” 

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as Harry finished his meal, he left the kitchen quickly; it was obvious that Snape felt that he’d had enough of Harry for one day. As per usual, Harry curled up in his armchair in the library.

The rest of the week progressed similarly. Harry would wake from a nightmare, remain in his room until six, then relocate to the library, where he gradually expanded his knowledge of the magical world. He _was_ at a disadvantage, after all, growing up so isolated, and he needed to make up for it now.

Often feeling restless due to the extensive amount of time he spent indoors, Harry regularly ran on the grounds every day, often more than once. He’d discovered that, in close proximity to the mist of protective spells, he was pushed back by a magnetic-like force, preventing him from passing it. Though Harry wasn’t surprised, it did make him uneasy that he wouldn’t be able to easily escape if he needed to. And he would need to, eventually, when Snape finally lost it, although, aside from meals, Harry rarely saw the man at all. It appeared that he really did spend the majority of the day in his lab, likely brewing substances that Harry couldn’t begin to understand.

Snape was an anomaly. He clearly disliked Harry and did not want him around at all, yet the man did not go out of his way to make Harry’s life miserable; if anything, he did the opposite. He allowed Harry to eat, gave him a bedroom, and never stood within grabbing distance of him. Why? It wasn’t as if anyone would find out if Snape did hurt him, and even if someone _did_ find out, why would they care? No one ever had before.

Ensconced in the library after dinner, Harry’s focus kept drifting away from his book.

 _Maybe this is a part of some master plan, my being here. Maybe it has something to do with the Boy-Who-Lived thing. But what_ is _the plan? What is being accomplished? Dumbledore probably knows. He seems the type; all-knowing and everything. And the books say that Voldemort feared him, so he must be really powerful. Or maybe he knew something no one else did. Or both, probably._

Giving up, Harry closed the book. It was nearly eleven-thirty. Though reluctant to subject himself to the nightmares that were sure to come, Harry went upstairs anyway. When he weighed his options, he concluded that a known evil, his nightmares, were safer and more easily dealt with than the unknown evil, which was Snape’s potential reaction if he didn’t go upstairs.

Not three hours later, Harry awoke, choking back a scream. He trembled uncontrollably, hitting his head repeatedly against the headboard in an attempt to distract himself. It didn’t work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to drop a comment.
> 
> Next up: Snape does not like being wrong


	4. Shattered Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This child simply defied nature, went against his heritage. The fact that the boy had known his parents for less than two years of his life seemed inconsequential. The Potter genes were prevalent. And the blasted boy was defying them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something of an interlude before things reach boiling point, so bear with me.

Severus Snape was perplexed- no, he was perturbed. Perplexity was not a feeling Severus would ever claim to have experienced. He would not have survived his years as a spy if he succumbed to the most _plebian_ of sensations.

It was the boy. The child was behaving nothing like Severus had anticipated, and it irritated him to no end. 

Severus had been expecting James bloody Potter reincarnated, and he had been _most_ displeased when Albus had informed him of the necessity of his housing the brat. He thought back with distaste of the night, scarcely a week prior, when Albus had called.

“Severus,” Albus’ head in the fireplace had said. “Would you be so kind as to invite me through? There is a rather urgent matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Severus had agreed without much care; Albus’ company was one of the few which he could occasionally tolerate. The old man generally knew his limits where they concerned Severus; he rarely outstayed his welcome, and he did not call unless there was a reason. Although Severus would never have admitted it to anyone, he did not particularly mind Albus’ company, even if the old man did have a _most_ inane obsession with sweets and muggle philosophy.

“Severus,” Albus had said placidly, brushing soot off of his, in Severus’ opinion, ridiculously colored cloak of deep purple. “I trust you are well?”

“Yes, thank you, Albus,” Severus had responded brusquely, gesturing toward a seat. “I have potions to attend to, so if you would proceed with your oration, fascinating as it surely will be, I would be most grateful.”

Albus had given Severus that twinkling look that so vexed him, but thankfully, did proceed.

“It is Harry Potter.”

Severus’ teeth had clenched, his hands in fists. “What _about_ him?” 

“The boy’s relatives have been recently deceased, and he was located in London, not two hours ago.”

Severus had had an awful feeling that he knew exactly where this was going. He played clueless, however, in an attempt to put off the moment when he’d be forced to accept the inevitable.

“And?” He'd raised his eyebrows in mock-politeness.

Albus had sighed slightly, as though bracing himself, and continued. “As it will be nearly three months until the boy begins school, he requires a temporary place of residence.”

“Oh?” Severus had replied, his courteous tone belying the raging anger bubbling beneath his chest. “Whatever did you have in mind? I presume Hogwarts itself is not an option?”

Albus had looked as though he knew quite well what Severus was thinking.

“You know, Severus, that I would not ask this of you were there any other possible arrangements. Believe me, I had thoroughly exhausted every resource of mine before coming here.”

 _In two hours?_ Severus had thought resentfully. But he'd known it was true. The situation with the boy’s protection _was_ precarious. The death of his relatives posed a definite problem. Nonetheless, Severus could barely contain the fury.

_A Potter? In my home? That bastard continues to torment me, long after his demise._

Albus had spoken again. “There are few locations concealed by such powerful and intricate protections as yours, and none owned by an individual aware of the boy’s unique-”

“I am well aware of all that which you say,” Severus had bit out through clenched teeth, cutting Albus off. “Do what you must. Fetch the boy. Bring him here. I presume you trust that he will be sent to Hogwarts come September, alive and intact.”

“Severus…”

“Go. Just go.”

Albus had paused beside the door and looked toward Severus.

“I thank you, Severus.”

“Do not thank me.”

Albus _still_ had not left.

“You are a far better man than you believe.”

Before Severus could respond, Albus had gone.

Severus had taken advantage of that moment to hurl a glass against the wall. He'd watched as it shattered, shards scattering across the polished wood floor. Just as life as he had previously known it. Shattered. Altered. Overturned. And not for the better.

Yes, Severus had been furious, and well-prepared to put the boy in his place, arrogant and unruly as he would undoubtedly be, as the spawn of James Potter, and as the bloody Boy-Who-Lived.

And then the boy, with those blasted green eyes and untidy Potter hair, had the _audacity_ to utterly shatter Severus’ expectations, just like that cursed glass he’d flung at the wall.

The child barely spoke; most of what he said consisted of variations of “yes, sir”, “no, sir”, and “thank you, sir”.

The boy had _thanked_ him, after every meal, as though Severus was doing him a favor. As much as Severus despised all things Potter, he would not stoop so low as to deny a child food. Yet the boy had seemed almost surprised, as though that was what he’d expected.

And the child was minuscule, considerably smaller than he should have been, as he appeared to be closer to eight or nine years than nearly eleven. The boy’s eating habits were also strange; they were more apt of a younger child than a boy his age.

And when the child had vomited, Severus had been braced for a tantrum, tears, and regression to the age of a toddler, as most children saw fit to do when ill. But instead, the boy had seemed momentarily frozen, as though he’d transgressed a cardinal sin, and then proceeded to try and clear up his mess. In Severus’ vast experience with immature preteen brats, the boy’s behavior was unusual.

And not just in his eating habits. The boy spent an inordinate amount of time in the library, poring over piles of books, only occasionally venturing outdoors to burn off energy as a normal child might.

Severus had felt a perverse sort of pleasure when informing the brat of his options. After all, what child would be satisfied with spending time in a library, with no playmates, broomsticks, or other such entertainment? But the boy did not appear bothered in the slightest, and he had proceeded to make use of the library at the first opportunity he’d had.

 _How did the boy turn out this way?_ Snape wondered, as he stirred six times clockwise to neutralize the excess acid of the armadillo bile. _He hardly behaves as a child, let alone as the spawn of James Potter known throughout the world as the Boy-Who-Lived._

At first, Severus had been certain that the boy’s silence was a sign of mischief. Clearly, he’d thought, the boy was involved in some devious plot to further disrupt Severus Snape’s ordered life, even more so than he’d already done by arriving in Severus’ home to begin with.

However, as the days passed, the boy continued to disprove Severus’ carefully laid theories and understandings. He arrived promptly for meals, ate politely, did not venture near the potions lab, and retired to his bedroom by half-past eleven every night without fail. He obeyed the rules, and Potters did _not_ obey rules. This child simply defied nature, went against his heritage. The fact that the boy had known his parents for less than two years of his life seemed inconsequential. The Potter genes were prevalent. And the blasted boy was _defying_ them.

Severus cursed as his potion began smoking slightly, and he stirred once, this time counterclockwise. If the potion’s pH levels fell below four, the entire brew would be rendered useless. Severus waved his wand over the potion, then exhaled. The levels were hovering slightly above four point three, which was manageable. He added a touch of wheatgrass, just to be on the safe side. The smoking subsided.

 _On a purely objective note,_ thought Severus, _it is fortunate that my home does provide the necessary protection._

He scowled. The complex protections of his home had most certainly _not_ been erected with the boy in mind.

During his stint as a spy near the end of the war, Severus had needed a sanctuary, a place to hold meetings with Dumbledore, to brew potions for the Order, to strengthen his Occlumency shields. And he needed a place where no one would find him.

So, with Albus’ assistance, he had acquired the home and property in which he now resided, and protective spells nearly as powerful as the Fidelius Charm had been erected, concealing its existence from even the Dark Lord himself. His fellow Death Eaters, most of the Order, and the Dark Lord had only known of Spinner’s End, his previous home.

Although now, the protections were not strictly necessary, Severus had little desire to see others during the summer, his brief time free of dunderheaded brats and adults alike. And the place belonged solely to him. Until now.

Now, he was required to house a child, the son of James Potter, no less. And to make things worse, he couldn’t vent his frustration on the boy, as the boy did nothing to provoke him or raise his ire in any way.

And Severus couldn’t blame Albus either, no matter how much he wished to. He’d known from the start, from the day the Dark Lord had fallen, of the danger concerning the boy. Of the danger he himself had wrought...

Severus had been slumped over in a chair in Dumbledore’s office. He was exhausted beyond measure, his emotions frayed and scattered. The Dark Lord had been defeated, but Lily was gone. All because of him. And her son, sired by his childhood enemy, had been the one to end the war.

Severus was free, but for what reason? He had nothing left to live for. But he was free, and Albus was seated behind his desk, facing him, not saying a word.

He’d not known whether to laugh or cry, to rejoice or grieve, so he settled for blankness.

Much easier. Safer

Albus had then spoken.

“I am sorry, Severus, I cannot convey to you how much-” 

“Say nothing,” Severus had croaked. “It does not matter.”

“Oh, Severus, but it does. What you are feeling-”

“Speak not of my feelings,” Severus had said coldly. “Just tell me what has happened, what must be done.”

Thankfully, Albus had respected his wishes, and continued. “Voldemort, acting upon the prophecy, went after Harry Potter, whom he concluded was the child it spoke of. As you know, it led to his downfall.”

“What of the prophecy?” Snape had asked, numbly.

Albus had waved a hand. “I view it as simply a possible future, in a metaphorical fashion, perhaps, as most prophecies tend to be. One cannot hope to determine its true meaning.”

“But the Dark Lord did not view it in that manner.”

“No, Severus, he did not. He chose to view it as an inevitability, as fate, leading to his ultimate downfall.”

“When the Dark Lord rises again, he will want the boy,” Severus had said slowly.

“Indeed.” Albus had nodded, a somber expression on his face. “And many of the Death Eaters who roam free will likely wish to exact revenge upon the boy.”

“Indeed,” Severus had murmured. “Although the boy did not do them a disservice by freeing them of the Dark Lord’s reign…”

“I have therefore placed the boy with his muggle relatives, his last remaining family.”

“Muggles?” Severus had spat. “In what way might _muggles_ be capable of protecting the boy?”

“Lily’s sacrifice provided the boy with protection, which resides in her blood, the blood of her sister. You know the magic of which I speak.”

Severus had nodded sharply. Yes, he did know. And he also knew that Lily was gone.

Severus chopped his valerian roots aggressively, carving faint lines into the table. He’d brought this upon himself, all of it. He’d signed Lily’s death warrant, he’d placed the boy in the danger he now faced. And he now had to see the boy every day, see those green eyes that seemed to stare into his very soul, reminding Severus of his failure. Reminding Severus of who the boy’s parents had been, and the reason for which he no longer had them.

But the child was so small, so quiet, so controlled. He acted nothing like either of his parents, for bad, or for good.

 _Perhaps he is grieving_ , Severus realized, stirring in the roots. _He did just lose his family, after all. Perhaps that is what causes him to be so silent. So… unchildlike._

He did know firsthand, after all, what loss could do to a child.

Severus shook off his thoughts. He did _not_ care, one way or another, what the boy may or may not be feeling. His job was solely to ensure the boy’s protection until he began school. Nothing more, especially not for a Potter.

He returned his full focus to the potion, which was now at its most precarious stage. Lowering the flame slightly, he stirred three times, then positioned a flask of lobalug venom directly over the cauldron. If he was off by so much as a drop…

Severus suddenly felt a disturbing vibration from the ceiling, and the faint sound of shattering glass.

The disturbance caused Severus’ hand to jerk, landing far too much of the venom into the potion. The entire brew curdled into a pitiful looking glob at the bottom of the cauldron.

He swore.

_The boy-_

He ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that cliffhanger. Next chapter should be posted in a few days. What do you think happened?
> 
> Up next: ...and it all comes crashing down


	5. Just a Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fury such that Harry had never felt ripped through him. He felt it in his chest, his lungs, his very heart. He had never felt such anger, such all-encompassing fury that possessed a life of its own.

Harry was frustrated.

He’d read through every book he could find that might possibly contain information about his defeat of Voldemort, hoping to discover how it could have been feasible. However, all that any of the books offered were variants of pretty much the same thing.

_At the height of his powers, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been intent on hunting down and murdering the Potters for reasons unknown. The Potters, who were well-respected, powerful wizards deeply involved in the uprising against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, were not easy targets; they were known to have successfully evaded Him and many of his followers, known as Death Eaters, on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named eventually tracked down the Potters, and on the thirty-first of October, 1981, He proceeded to kill them. Upon the deaths of James and Lily Potter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attempted to murder their son, Harry James Potter, who was fifteen months old at that time. For unexplained and unprecedented reasons, the attempted Killing Curse failed to kill the child, and, instead, rebounded upon He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, thereby vanquishing Him. The child was left with a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead, where the curse had made contact. This incident marked the end of the eleven year civil war among the British wizarding citizens._

That was it. None of the books explained _how_ Harry had survived; none of them even offered any possible explanations or hypotheses. Nor did the books provide information on what exactly had happened to Voldemort.

Harry skimmed yet another book half-heartedly, not at all expecting to discover any new information.

 _Thus,_ the book read, _October thirty-first, 1981, marked the end of the war, pronouncing Harry James Potter as the Boy-Who-Lived. Upon his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-_

 _There’s more?_ Harry read on eagerly.

_Upon his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry Potter was placed into the temporary custody of Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore, renowned defeater of Grindelwald (1945), and the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1956 - present). He was said to have placed the Boy-Who-Lived with his muggle relations, his last remaining family. The precise location is unknown._

Harry read the passage. Then read it again. And again. He felt an odd ringing in his ears.

It was Dumbledore. Dumbledore had dumped him at the Dursleys and left him there. Dumbledore was the reason for everything; the reason he’d suffered, the reason he couldn’t sleep through the night without wanting to end it all.

Dumbledore had left him there, and had only shown up when the Dursleys had died. And then he’d proceeded to dump him in the home of yet _another_ person who didn’t want him.

A terrifying realization slowly began to dawn on Harry.

_I’m being used._

_This is no mistake on Dumbledore’s part, he’s doing this deliberately. This is a plot. He’s trying to mold me, to turn me into something by putting me through all this. He_ wants _me not to have anyone, to hurt, to suffer, so that I’ll run into his arms when he “rescues” me, and do whatever he wants._

_It’s all because of him. Everything. All of it._

A fury such that Harry had never felt ripped through him. He felt it in his chest, his lungs, his very heart. He had never felt such anger, such all-encompassing fury that possessed a life of its own.

The anger expanded within him, and his body could no longer contain it. It burst out of him in a terrific surge of uncontrollable magic.

The room seemed to explode before him. The windows shattered, and countless, tiny shards of glass scattered across the room. Hundreds of books flew off their shelves, landing in every corner of the room, piled haphazardly. The bookshelves themselves, every last one, crashed to the floor with a deafening thud, the entire room shuddering. The chairs and tables overturned, ink splattering everywhere.

Harry stood amidst the wreckage, unharmed, staring impassively through glazed eyes. The raging anger had left him with the magic, leaving him quite numb, and more exhausted than he’d ever been. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, unmoving.

“Potter!”

Harry sensed Snape’s voice rather than heard it. He turned slowly to meet Snape’s livid gaze.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Snape was standing in the doorway, positively frothing at the mouth.

Harry did not even try to respond. What could he say? He didn’t think he’d be able to speak; he could not even muster up the energy to be afraid of what he knew was sure to come.

There was a brief moment of silence, during which Snape seemed to be awaiting his reply. Harry continued to say nothing, staring at a point on the wall behind Snape.

Suddenly, Snape moved. He was striding towards Harry, much too quickly, and before Harry could react, he was grabbed by the upper arms and hoisted into the air.

Harry dangled for a moment before his exhausted and overwrought brain caught up with his senses.

_No no no no no no. He’s going to kill me. Can’t move. Can’t get away. Running makes things worse. Go! Leave, go somewhere else, get out of here. Now!_

And Harry did.

His consciousness retreated to a place in the deepest recesses of his mind, where he was safe, where nothing could hurt him. He vaguely sensed that Snape was yelling at him, but all he heard was a faint buzzing in his ears. He felt, detachedly, a pressure on his upper arms, where Snape was gripping him tightly, shaking him.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered here, where he was alone, free, far from any threat.

Harry came back to himself abruptly as he was dropped to the ground quite suddenly. He looked up to see Snape staring at him with a frozen expression on his face that Harry could not place. He didn’t try.

Harry moved his arms, and flinched as he felt a shooting pain in his right shoulder.

_Oh, a dislocation. That can be dealt with._

Harry gritted his teeth, then shoved his shoulder back into place in one forceful movement.

Snape was still staring at him, even more strangely this time, and much more intensely.

Harry’s well-honed instincts, and finally, the fear, began to pervade his senses.

 _Why am I still here? Get the hell out of here, you idiot, before he_ really _hurts you._

Harry bolted.

***

Severus stood still, overcome by an emotion akin to shock, staring at the spot the boy had just vacated. He could tell, by the distant pounding of the stairs, that the boy had not attempted to run away, he’d just retreated to his bedroom.

_What have I done?_

He had, in a startling fit of rage, manhandled the boy roughly enough to _dislocate_ his shoulder, and he’d likely left bruises on the boy’s arms as well.

Severus had never, in any sense of the word, liked children, but he’d never laid a finger on any one of them, let alone done them physical harm

Until now.

When he’d rushed into the library in response to his alarms, he’d seen red.

This home was the one place where Severus had been free. Free of his father, free of the Dark Lord, and free of his childhood tormentors.

He’d painstakingly rebuilt his life around this home, and that could never be taken from him.

But then, he’d entered the library to find it in a severe state of disarray, the damage caused by none other than the spawn of James Potter. James Potter had come back to torment him, to wreak havoc upon his life, to destroy all that he held dear. And Potter had simply stood there, refusing to explain, staring at him insolently.

And Severus had utterly lost his composure, and proceeded to manhandle the child.

And a child he was, Severus had realized in the midst of his rage. The child had hung like a ragdoll in Severus’ unforgiving hands as he was roughly shaken, slight weight barely registering, his scrawny arms trapped within Severus’ painfully tight grip.

Severus had been too blinded by rage to process the boy’s initial reaction, but by the time he’d come to his senses, the child had looked… blank, lost, as though he’d all but vacated his body.

He’d then, in the shock of realizing his actions, abruptly dropped the boy, and he had been horrified to hear a popping sound. He’d just _dislocated_ the boy’s shoulder.

He’d hurt a child. Not James Potter reincarnated, not a person of equal stature and strength, but a child, and a small, underfed one at that.

And then, the boy had promptly _shoved_ his shoulder back into place with an air of practiced ease, as though it was something he did every day.

_A lifetime of Occlumency training, years of serving the Dark Lord, months of spying, and I could not control my emotions towards a child._

Severus was seriously questioning the view he’d held of himself all these years. He’d sworn to himself, after growing up with a violent father, and upon witnessing the Dark Lord and Death Eaters alike torture children without a thought, that he would never physically harm a child. While children were irritating, dense, and immature, they were defenseless in the face of a fully-grown adult. And Severus was well acquainted with the feeling of powerlessness.

Yet he’d abandoned all his principles in a moment of uncontrollable rage and utter idiocy. No matter what the child had done, Severus’ actions were indefensible.

He waved his wand jerkily, restoring the bookshelves, restacking the books, repairing the windows.

Another wave of self-recrimination engulfed him. He’d hurt a child in response to a deed that was so easily reversed? If the boy had destroyed his entire home beyond repair, then perhaps, somehow, his actions, if not excusable, could have been explained.

But no. Within five minutes, the mess had been entirely sorted out.

It was time that he seriously rethought his views of and actions towards the child residing in his home, the son of James Potter or not. He would have to speak with the boy, difficult though it might be.

 _Best to wait until morning,_ Severus thought. _It is already quite late, and the boy will undoubtedly be disinclined toward my presence._

Severus knew that he was simply putting off the moment when he’d have to explain his actions to the boy, but then, there was some logic to his rationalization. They’d both be well-served by a good night’s sleep. Then, come morning, he’d attempt to set things right.

Upon clearing up the mess of his failed potion, and ascertaining that the boy was indeed in his bedroom, Severus settled into bed. Yet sleep evaded him as unwanted memories pervaded his mind. Recollections of his childhood, of his time in the Dark Lord’s service, of the tortured screams of young children… all with a backdrop of emerald green, of Lily’s eyes… the child’s eyes…

His thoughts were shattered by a scream.

***

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, a scream tearing at his throat.

This nightmare had been a particularly vicious one, no doubt prompted by the night’s earlier events. That explained why he had screamed aloud, though he hadn’t done so in years. Uncle Vernon had hated being woken, and, later, on the streets, any noise would have given away his location.

 _You’re okay, you’re okay, they can’t get you, just a dream, not real- No! It_ is _real. He’s gonna come back and finish the job-_

Harry immediately jumped out of his bed, backing toward the wall. He’d heard footsteps, and they were growing steadily louder as they neared his bedroom.

He scarcely breathed as the door opened, his heart beating like a drum. The door creaked open, and he drew his arms around himself protectively as Snape walked in. He reached into his pocket, finding it distressingly empty. Cursing his exhaustion-worn instincts, he realized he’d neglected to retrieve his penknife from under his pillow. He trembled.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter, I have no intention of harming you,” Snape said, standing by the doorway.

Harry raised his eyebrows at that, but did not relax his stance.

_I suppose you’re here to invite me to tea._

Snape spoke again, in the same odd tone, lacking its usual venom. “I heard a scream.” Snape paused a moment. “A nightmare?”

Harry didn’t answer, but Snape appeared to interpret his silence as an affirmative answer.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Harry whispered.

Actually, Harry wasn’t sorry at all, but Uncle Vernon had liked apologies; they had often tended to lessen the severity of what was to come.

“You did not wake me, Mr. Potter, but, had you done so, I would not be inclined to harbor anger toward you; you could hardly have prevented it.”

Harry felt his fear recede slightly, with a rising sense of irritation. Snape’s moods shifted at the drop of a hat; one minute, he looked about ready to strangle Harry to death, the next, he was asking about Harry’s nightmare. The vacillation was seriously unnerving.

The irritation, the exhaustion, and the fact that Harry’s inhibitions tended to lessen when woken from a nightmare loosened his tongue.

“Didn’t stop you before.”

Snape raised his eyebrows at that. “Would you care to elaborate?”

Harry paused for a moment. 

“In the library.”

Snape looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

Now beyond the point of caring, Harry elaborated. “I was angry. When I get angry, things happen.”

Harry held his breath; he was certain that Snape’s wrath would now be unleashed. Perhaps that had been Harry’s intention, to provoke Snape into just getting on with it, instead of playing this unsettling guessing game.

He was therefore surprised to see Snape sigh and close his eyes for a moment. “Mr. Potter, I… wish to apologize, now even more so upon your recent revelation.”

 _He wishes to_ what _? Since when do adults apologize? Since when does_ anybody _apologize?_

Snape took a step forward, and Harry took a step back. Snape held out his palms. “I will not hurt you again, Mr. Potter. I will not touch you without your agreement. I merely wish to explain, and for you to listen.”

Harry said nothing, at a complete loss of how to respond. He just waited, arms clutched around himself, back against the wall.

Snape, still standing near the doorway, spoke. “Mr. Potter, had you, knowingly and willingly, destroyed my entire house, my earlier actions toward you would have been entirely inappropriate. Even more so, considering that you had not purposefully caused the damage, and that it was easily reversible.”

_Since when does intention matter? Adults beat up kids to vent anger and show them who’s in charge. And he didn’t even hurt me that badly._

Snape seemed to notice his confusion, though Harry could not understand how, as he was sure he’d kept his face blank.

“I understand, Mr. Potter, that I’ve given you little reason to trust my word. However, I will say that you can be assured that I will not harm you again. Perhaps a time will come that you will believe me.”

Harry couldn’t even mask his expression at this point; he simply stared at Snape, eyebrows at his hairline.

_There is no way he meant any of that. Impossible. This is part of the plot. He’ll try to gain my trust, then somehow, something will be accomplished, and Dumbledore will be happy._

“I don’t believe you.” Harry said flatly.

Snape just exhaled slightly. “I do not expect you to. I simply wish to convey that it will not happen again. Eventually, you will come to see that I do not lie.” Snape’s eyes had not left Harry as he spoke.

Harry stared back, studying Snape’s face in search of any indication that he was lying. Harry was sure Snape was, but he was usually able to judge a person’s sincerity by their tone or expression, a skill he’d developed out of necessity. However, he could not detect anything in Snape’s expression. Nothing. Not even a twitch, a blink, or a movement.

_Either he’s a better liar than I’ve ever met, or he’s not lying. I’ll go with the exceptionally good liar theory._

There was a long moment in which Harry and Snape simply stared at each other without speaking. Eventually, Snape broke the silence.

“It appears that you are not going to ask, but you may likely wonder why I had done what I did if I claim to be loath to harm you.” Snape paused.

 _I don’t wonder why you would want to hurt me, I wonder why you_ wouldn’t.

Snape spoke again, in a somewhat halting tone of voice. “I admit that I had been harboring unwarranted negative sentiments toward you, based on erroneous assumptions. It has become clear to me, upon the day’s events, that I was wrong in doing so. As such, my earlier actions will not, in any form, occur again.”

 _Did he just_ explain _himself to me? Why would he have even needed a reason to hurt me in the first place?_

Snape seemed to be awaiting a response, so Harry looked at Snape and nodded his head.

Snape studied him again. Harry wished he would leave; the man was entirely too confusing.

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” said Snape. “I will leave it at that. If you should experience any difficulty in awakening later this morning, I will not be averse to postponing breakfast.”

Snape finally left.

Harry exhaled slowly and forced his limbs to relax before climbing back into bed. He did not fall back asleep for a long while.

***

Severus returned to bed, his mind racing. While he thought he’d gotten his point across well enough, the child’s reactions were… odd.

_He is clearly terrified of me._

Severus felt a stab of guilt in his chest. He’d terrified the boy to the point of driving him to nightmares?

_There is something more here. The boy seemed entirely too surprised at my apology, and his protective instincts are quite well-developed. Not to mention his generally odd behaviors. The boy’s fear clearly stems from a deeper place. I do have my suspicions._

Snape felt another jolt when he realized that he’d neglected to tend to the child’s injuries.

_Somehow, when it comes to this child, I seem to abandon all rational thought. That must change._

Severus had not been a spy for nothing; he would discover what it was that plagued the child. And, perhaps, do right by him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts, so don't hesitate to leave a comment.
> 
> Next up: Harry won't trust Snape as far as he can throw him


	6. Part of the Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry glared at Snape; there was no reason not to now. Snape would do what he wished, but Harry wasn’t going to be pleasant about it. Clearly, being pleasant hadn’t worked thus far.

Harry awoke abruptly the next morning, surprised that he’d actually gotten back to sleep. The previous night’s events came rushing back to him.

Discovering Dumbledore’s plot. The incident in the library. Snape blowing up, and then later, apologizing for it.

_Why? What could he gain from doing that? He wouldn’t get in trouble; isn’t that exactly what Dumbledore wanted in the first place, for him to make me miserable? So what would Snape gain from pretending to be nice?_

Harry stretched, then drew his right arm close to his chest at the lingering ache in his shoulder. Clenching his teeth, he dressed. Technically, there was no more danger in being in Snape’s company than there had already been. Snape could do what he pleased, and Harry would not be able to escape, at least until he figured out how to break through the spells.

Shoving his penknife into his pocket, Harry made his way to the kitchen.

Snape was seated in his usual place at the table, but there was no newspaper in sight. He nodded to Harry, gesturing toward the food. Harry ate carefully, on his guard, knowing that Snape would speak eventually.

And he did.

“It has occurred to me, Mr. Potter, that I have not assessed you for lasting injuries you may have received at my hands,” Snape said in an inscrutable tone of voice, though Harry thought he glimpsed a glimmer of remorse in the man’s eyes.

_He’s just faking it._

Snape was looking at Harry, waiting for something.

_Oh._

“I’m fine, sir. There’s no need.”

 _That is the_ last _thing I need._

“While your forbearance is commendable, Mr. Potter, I cannot in good conscience leave your shoulder unchecked, considering that you treated it yourself.” 

Harry felt his heartbeat speed up.

_Not good. I don’t want him near me. I don’t want anyone near me. Ever again._

He shook his head quickly. “It feels fine, I don't need-”

“I am afraid I must disagree with you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry wanted to smash his head against the table.

“If your shoulder has sustained untreated damage, it is likely to grow more painful, and the injury may eventually become irreversible.”

Harry shook his head again, trying valiantly to control his anxiety. “No, thank you, sir. I don’t-”

Snape held up a hand, silencing Harry, and he stiffened, his eyes following Snape’s movements. The man lowered his hand, looking somewhat agitated. He took a deep breath, as though gathering the last vestiges of his patience.

“Mr. Potter, I am aware that you do not feel you require it, but it is necessary for the damage to be attended to. I would much prefer that you allow me to do so. However, should you continue to refuse assistance, I will have little choice but to insist.”

Harry wanted to run, as fast and far as he could, ‘til he was back on the streets, alone and in control.

_I have no choice now. When I don’t comply, it hurts more. And I’ve no doubt that he could force me. It’ll happen no matter what I do._

Harry's hands began to tremble, and he didn't bother trying to conceal them. He nodded once, tersely, avoiding Snape's gaze.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up through his fringe.

“I will reiterate, as it appears you require me to do so, that I will not harm you in any way. I intend to repair the damage, not to exacerbate it,” Snape said, in a tone that was clearly meant to be reassuring.

Harry glared at Snape; there was no reason not to now. Snape would do what he wished, but Harry wasn’t going to be pleasant about it. Clearly, being pleasant hadn’t worked thus far. Snape, contrary to Harry’s expectations, did not chastise Harry for his rudeness. He simply shook his head slightly, a crease between his eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. If you are quite done with your food, please follow me.”

Harry nodded, and they both rose, Snape waving his wand to clear the table. He followed Snape into the sitting room, and, as per instruction, sat down on the couch, while Snape conjured a chair, swiveling it around to face Harry. Harry sat back at far as he could, his hands in fists, far too agitated to contemplate the magic Snape had just performed.

Snape sighed.

“Mr. Potter, I will require you to remove your shirt so I can properly assess the damage."

It took a monumental effort for Harry to unclench his muscles enough to move them. Forcing his fingers to cease their trembling, Harry pulled his shirt over his head, shivering slightly as he felt cool air breeze across his chest.

Snape’s reaction was odd. Instead of reaching toward him, Snape’s eyes traveled down Harry’s torso, pausing first at Harry’s slightly swollen shoulder, and then at the bruising around his upper arms. Harry saw Snape’s face tighten at that.

Harry then saw Snape’s gaze shift to the spot on his chest, just below the collarbone, where he’d been knifed a while back. At least Harry had managed to nick the penknife after that fight. Then Snape’s eyes moved toward the misshapen rib on his left side, which had never quite healed. And at all the more recent scrapes and bruises in various stages of healing.

Harry drew his arms around himself, but that just drew Snape’s attention toward the burn scars near his elbows, from when he’d been shoved into the stove.

 _What is he_ doing _? Just get on with it._

Harry looked at Snape, and studied the strange expression on his face. It was fierce, and angry, but Harry did not think that the anger was directed at him. The man was silent for another moment, his gaze traveling to Harry’s face. Harry avoided his eyes, staring resolutely at Snape’s hands, which had yet to reach toward him.

“Are your nightmares a regular occurrence, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked quietly.

 _What? Damn his observance! Only_ he _would make that connection. Why is he asking? What does he care?_

Harry remained stubbornly silent. Snape could poke and prod ‘til the cows came home, but Harry was not going to make this easy for him. The man studied him for another long moment before straightening in his seat and drawing his wand. Harry immediately tensed, and it was all he could do not to run for the door.

Snape studied him through narrowed eyes. “Mr. Potter, I wish to simply cast a diagnostic spell to determine the state of your shoulder, nothing more. You will not feel anything.”

Harry’s breathing only quickened at that, and he glanced quickly around the room, looking for an escape route.

“Potter, while your wariness would be prudent were I likely to pose harm, I only intend to help you.”

_That’s what they all say._

Fear was beginning to overtake Harry’s senses.

_You’re a liar. Stupid git. That’s it._

All logical thought seemed to abandon Harry, and he immediately ran for the door. It closed in his face, lock clicking shut. Harry just stopped and simply stared at the door, his chest heaving.

“Potter.”

Harry turned slowly to find Snape in the same position he had been, albeit with a less neutral expression on his face.

“To me. Now,” Snape said in a frighteningly soft tone, his black eyes boring into Harry.

_This is it, then. No more games._

Harry smoothed his features into blankness, and walked back toward the couch, feeling as though he was walking toward the electric chair.

He sat and looked at Snape, waiting.

After a pause, Snape raised his wand, and it was only through sheer force of will that Harry did not cringe. But when Snape waved his wand, Harry felt nothing; his shoulder simply glowed red for a moment, then stopped.

“That was it, Mr. Potter. Was that truly worth your previous display?” Snape asked, in what Harry thought was a condescending tone of voice.

_Screw you._

Harry did not appreciate being talked down to. He had no reason to believe that Snape wasn’t going to hurt him.

“Yes,” Harry said in a hard voice.

_Let’s see how nice he is now, after that._

However, Snape just looked at Harry with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“It is unfortunate that you feel that way, Mr. Potter.”

_It is unfortunate that I have to sit here with my shirt off while you wave your wand in my face._

“Now, back to the matter at hand,” Snape said, in a more businesslike tone of voice. “While your shoulder was indeed relocated correctly, it was done so rather roughly, which has exacerbated the swelling and stiffness you are currently experiencing. Therefore…” Snape pulled a bottle of a bright blue liquid out of his robes. “This will ease the swelling.”

He handed the potion to Harry. Harry didn’t take it, he just looked at Snape with raised eyebrows.

_You expect me to drink that willingly? Looks like poison to me. You’ll have to force it down my throat, I’m not dying on your terms._

Snape looked irritated.

“Would it help if I first sampled the potion, so you can be assured that I have no intention of poisoning you?”

“Perhaps, sir, it is only lethal in large quantities,” Harry said tersely.

At this point, Snape appeared slightly amused. He flicked his wand, and Harry jerked back, but nothing happened. A moment later, a book flew into Snape’s hand. He rapidly flipped through its pages and handed it to Harry.

“This is the recipe for the potion, Mr. Potter, and it is pictured here.” Snape pointed.

Harry looked. There was an image of a blue potion identical to the one in Snape’s hand, titled _Anti-Inflammatory Potion._ He skimmed through the ingredients, finding nothing that appeared sinister.

“As I do not doubt you are aware, considering the apparently extensive research you have seen fit to engage in, if a potion is altered in any significant way, it will no longer appear as it was intended to."

_Nice try. You almost got me there._

“You're a potions master, sir. I'm sure that you of all people would be able to get around that.”

Snape smirked slightly. “While you flatter me with your most generous assessment of my skills, even I am not capable of such a feat.”

_So you say._

Harry continued to stare at Snape, refusing to accept the potion.

Snape was appearing less amused, and rapidly more irritated. “You are being irrational, Potter.”

_No, just reasonably cautious._

Snape looked angry, now. “You will drink it. Now.”

Harry shook his head, scooting backwards.

_No, you’ll have to force me. I’m not an idiot._

Snape rose from his seat, towering over Harry.

_Oh, god, here it comes._

Harry dug his head into his knees, wrapping his arm around them tightly as he waited for Snape to grab him. But nothing happened. A minute passed. Then another. Harry heard Snape sit down, and he peeked through his fingers.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said in a low voice. “I do apologize for frightening you.” Snape’s eyes were slightly narrowed, though his face was inscrutable as ever.

 _I am_ not _frightened._

Harry slowly untangled himself and lifted his chin. Snape looked tense, but no longer angry.

“If you were to assist me in brewing the potion you require, would you be amenable to consuming it?”

Harry studied Snape face, not quite believing his offer. But, odd as it was, Snape appeared sincere in his statement.

_I can do that. I guess he really doesn’t want to poison me. Otherwise he would have forced me. Maybe he’s come up with another plan._

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Potter. You will accompany me to my potions laboratory immediately following lunch. You may go.”

Snape flicked his wand, and the door opened.

Harry pulled his shirt on and left the room as quickly as he could without running. Instead of going to the library, Harry retreated to the grounds, and he ran as far as he could from the house. He stopped by his favorite tree and scrambled up its branches, hardly noticing the pain in his shoulder, until he was almost completely concealed by large, dark green leaves.

Why did Snape have to start noticing him now? Everything had been fine before, when he and Snape had simply left each other alone. But for some reason, now Snape insisted on asking questions, and he would not stop poking around where he was not wanted. None of it made sense to Harry, and he longed for the first few days he’d been here, when he’d barely had to look at Snape.

_I don’t get it. He clearly does want to give me healing potions, because he’s going to the trouble of letting me help brew them. If he wanted to poison me, he wouldn’t do that. So why, then?_

The only plausible explanation Harry could come up with was that Snape really was sorry for hurting him. But that made no sense.

_Maybe he just doesn’t want Dumbledore to find out._

But that made no sense either.

_According to my theory, Dumbledore wants me to be miserable here, and anywhere I live before Hogwarts. Unfortunately for him, I figured out his plan._

Nothing was adding up, and Harry hated it. He _always_ knew what was going on, or at least had some idea, but now, he was coming up blank, and that was _not_ okay.

Harry continued to sit on the tree branch broodingly, his legs swinging.

After an undetermined length of time, Harry figured, by the position of the sun, that it was about time for lunch. He hurried inside, and found that he was not far wrong. Without looking at Snape, Harry sat at the kitchen table and filled his plate, eating in silence.

“Did those relatives of yours see fit to feed you regularly, Potter?” Snape asked suddenly.

_Damn, more questions?_

“I wonder why you’d ask that, sir.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Judging by your physical state, Potter, I could only conclude that, at the very least, the muggles did little to ensure your well-being.”

 _If I lie, it means I care about the truth, which I_ don’t _, but I’m not about to spill my guts, either._

“One might come to many conclusions to explain my eating habits, so I wonder why you choose that one.”

_That’s right, just be polite and clueless._

“Have you any others, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked sardonically.

Harry pushed back the glare that he sorely desired to direct at Snape. “None that I wish to share with you."

_Stop talking to me!_

To Harry’s annoyance, Snape just raised a patronizing eyebrow.

“I do hope you are aware, Mr. Potter, that you have just answered my question.”

“Why do you suppose that, sir?”

“Your response, Potter, was simply a somewhat more polite and elaborate way of informing me that it is none of my business.”

_Well, it isn’t._

“Therefore,” Snape continued, “it is clear to me that I was correct in assuming what I did, as avoiding my question is rather a manner of providing me with an affirmative answer.”

Harry wanted to growl. Why couldn’t Snape just shut up and mind his own stupid business?

“Assume what you will,” Harry replied in a deliberately calm tone, and he looked down towards his food, indicating that he was done with this conversation.

Thankfully, Snape said nothing more, and silence ensued for the next ten minutes.

Harry ate slowly, in attempt to postpone the moment where he’d have to accompany Snape to the potions lab. Although he was interested in brewing, it was not worth being in the company of Snape for any longer than he had to be. He swirled his food around his plate with a fork until it all combined into an unappealing brown mush.

“Mr. Potter, judging by the activity you are currently engaged in, it is clear to me that you have quite finished.” Snape abruptly rose and moved toward the door.

Harry groaned inwardly, but stood and followed Snape down the hall. Harry hesitated when they reached the door of the lab. What if this was a test? Maybe Snape wanted to see if Harry would still follow the rule about staying out of the lab.

Typically, Snape correctly deduced the reason behind Harry’s hesitation.

“I am aware that I informed you in rather strong terms that you are not to enter my laboratory. However, the rule no longer stands if I accompany you,” he said, turning to face Harry.

Harry nodded, looking away, and Snape waved his wand to open the door. Harry followed Snape down a steep flight of stairs, into a large, dark room. Harry tried to force back his apprehension.

_Get a grip. He doesn’t have to bring you down here to do anything, he could just as well do it upstairs._

Annoyingly, Snape, once again, took note of his anxiety.

“You would do well to relax, Mr. Potter. It is not my intention to dismember you for use of potions ingredients, as very few potions require human body parts,” Snape said dryly.

Harry almost snorted, but oddly, Snape’s comment did relax him slightly.

Snape waved his wand again, and some lamps attached to the wall lit, revealing the room to be occupied by tables holding cauldrons of various materials and sizes. There were a few bookshelves containing potions volumes, and there were shelves filled with countless bottled potions and odd looking ingredients.

Despite himself, Harry looked around with interest. Now, somewhat less anxious, he was actually quite looking forward to attempting a potion, after reading so much about them. Harry looked up quickly as Snape walked over, carrying the same book he’d shown to Harry upstairs, open to the anti-inflammatory potion recipe.

“As this is a rather advanced potion, you will primarily observe its making, only adding to it as I say. Is that understood?” Snape said severely.

Harry nodded.

“Follow me.”

Harry followed Snape to a narrow door, which turned out to be an ingredients cupboard.

“I will name ingredients, and you will retrieve them for me. Are you amenable?” Snape asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape began to call out ingredients, and Harry found them quickly, handing them to Snape.

_He’s actually serious about this. He’s having me get the ingredients so I’ll know for sure that he isn’t adding anything._

When all the ingredients had been collected, Harry followed Snape to a table set with a large, black cauldron with a low flame lit beneath it.

“Now, I will first add the syrup of hellebore, as stated here. You will measure out two quarter pints of boswellin…”

Harry gradually began to relax, more and more and the potion progressed. Snape followed the instructions of the book precisely, even though Harry was sure Snape could make the potion without it. He allowed Harry to measure out and occasionally add ingredients, and, toward the end, he permitted Harry to stir.

Harry was fascinated. This was nothing like chemistry class, as Harry had thought it would be. Each ingredient caused the potion to change drastically, often in entirely unexpected ways, and even the stirring affected the potion significantly, in ways such as thickening it, changing the color, and the texture.

So great was Harry’s interest that he was almost okay with Snape's presence. He did keep Snape in view at all times, but his fear of Snape lashing out gradually lessened as the potion progressed.

After roughly forty-five minutes, the potion was nearly complete.

“While the potions simmers, Mr. Potter, I will allow you to attempt a potion used for superficial injuries, as it is far less advanced.” Snape handed Harry the recipe, and Harry went back to the cupboard to assemble the ingredients, occasionally looking back at Snape to make sure he didn’t add anything to the first potion.

Harry turned his cauldron to face Snape, and carefully began, double-checking every instruction, while Snape occasionally voiced corrections. The potion was pretty simple, and after a short while, it was complete. Snape came over to inspect it.

“Quite adequate for a first attempt, Mr. Potter, just be sure to stir more forcefully in the future.”

_Did he just give me a compliment? Maybe he just wants me to think the potion is fine, but it’s really all wrong and- No, it looks like it’s supposed to._

Harry nodded to Snape, unsure of how to respond, and Snape bottled both potions. He beckoned toward Harry.

“Follow me.”

Harry tensed again, but followed Snape to a door, which led to a small side room stocked with more potions. He pointed Harry toward a wooden chair beside the wall and handed Harry the bottle of anti-inflammatory potion.

“I assume, Potter, that you now trust this is not poison?” Snape said sharply.

Harry nodded quickly. He didn’t understand why Snape felt it so vital that he take the potion, but as it was clearly not poisonous, he drained the bottle. Almost immediately, he felt tension leave his right shoulder, and he could almost feel the swelling diminish. Harry felt a tightness in his chest, but, this time, it was not from fear. When had anybody ever gone to such lengths to heal his injuries? When had anyone even cared at all? Harry did not trust Snape’s motives, but he could not come up with any logical explanation for his actions.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

Snape frowned, that fierce expression crossing his face yet again

“Do not thank me, Mr. Potter, as your injury was caused by myself.”

_But I don’t think he even dislocated my shoulder on purpose. What the hell is going on? He hasn’t said one mean thing the whole time we were down here._

Snape spoke again. “As for the bruise balm, I presume you would prefer to apply it on your own?”

Harry nodded quickly, relieved.

“As for your… older injuries, such as your poorly healed rib and the scarring, they are beyond my capabilities to heal sufficiently. Therefore, they _will_ be tended to by the school nurse at the start of term.” He gave Harry a look that clearly indicated that there would be no getting out of this.

_Yeah, later is good. I can wait, possibly forever._

Snape then handed Harry the potion he’d made himself, which had taken on a hue of pale green.

“You may go. However, should you neglect to apply the balm, and I assure you, I will know if you have, I will apply it myself,” he said austerely.

_No way are you doing that._

Harry gave Snape a look that communicated his thoughts. Snape just looked back, saying with his eyes that if Harry wanted to avoid it, he’d better apply the potion.

Without a word, Snape handed Harry the potions book he’d been using, and Harry nodded his thanks. He quickly climbed the stairs and curled up in the library, opening the book so that he didn't have to think about how none of this made any sense at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: not all of Harry's memories are bad...


	7. The Safe Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memory, growing gradually clearer, blossomed in Harry’s mind. A small, warm space, far away, with a quiet, yet comforting presence beside him…

_Uncle Vernon pins Harry against the wall by his throat. A purple vein in his neck bulges as he leans closer until his face is mere inches away._

_“I won’t have this under my roof!”_

_Harry struggles under his grip, and Vernon presses harder, forcing Harry to hold still lest his airway be cut off completely. Harry feels the man’s meaty hand tremble slightly over his throat, and, for a moment, Harry detects a hint of fear in his eyes._

_Do you hear me, boy?” Vernon releases Harry’s neck only to grab him by the shoulders and shake him so forcefully that the back of his head thumps painfully against the wall._

_“Answer me!”_

_“Y-yes, sir,” Harry chokes out. Uncle Vernon throws him a vicious glare before knocking him to the floor..._

_...Harry is huddled against the shed behind the strip of townhouses, his hand pressed over the bleeding cut under his collarbone. If those guys find him again…_

_...Dark, beady eyes are trained on him, staring like they have all night, and it’s dark and no one’s around, but not that it would matter if anyone was, because what happens to him doesn’t matter..._

_A hand suddenly grips his shoulder._

Harry gasped, and dug his knee hard into the chest of his attacker. He clawed at the hand on his shoulder, rolling away and crashing to the floor. He searched his pockets for his penknife, but he came up empty.

He slowly opened his eyes. He wasn’t on the streets, he was sprawled in his bedroom at Snape’s house, who was standing beside Harry’s bed, looking somewhat disheveled. Harry couldn’t move a muscle. He’d just attacked Snape. This had to be the point at which he’d pushed the man too far, and now he’d really let Harry have it, and he’d have a right to-

“Mr. Potter-”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry interrupted, gasping. “I didn’t- I thought-”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter. I do not hold you responsible for your actions just now, as you were quite unaware of your surroundings,” Snape said, voice lacking venom entirely.

Harry swallowed, still feeling frozen in place. “D-did I wake you?” he asked hoarsely.

“No. I was passing your bedroom, en route to my own, and I detected movement. Another nightmare, I presume?”

_Why does he keep asking about this? Maybe if I answer he’ll stay not angry. But I don’t want to._

Harry settled for a jerk of his shoulder.

“A vocal response, if you please, Mr. Potter.”

_I should really do what he says right now. He has every right to be furious._

“I… I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Very well.” Snape backed away from the bed, and Harry climbed back into it, eyeing Snape warily.

Snape was just watching him, and Harry shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. He was almost thankful when Snape spoke.

“Mr. Potter, there do exist magical means of managing sleep disturbances.”

Harry looked up. “Do you mean a potion, like dreamless sleep?” he asked, remembering what he had read Snape’s potions book.

Snape shook his head. “Dreamless sleep is not recommended for long-term use due to its potentially addictive qualities.” He folded his arms. “I was speaking of a branch of mind magic, known as Occlumency."

_Occlumency? I haven’t found any books on that._

As always, Snape seemed to read his thoughts. “You would not have found any volumes on the topic, as I own very few, none of which are stored in the library. Furthermore, mind magic of any sort is not a skill that can be learned from books; rather, it must be practiced.”

_Mind magic?_

“Occlumency is, primarily, the art of guarding one’s mind against intrusion.”

_Intrusion? Can wizards break into minds? Can he? What if he’s read mine?_

“Can wizards-” Harry broke off.

“Yes,” Snape responded shrewdly. “Some wizards do possess the capability to access the minds of others, though it is a rare skill, known as Legilimency.”

Snape paused for a moment.

“I am proficient in both arts.”

_Oh no, he_ can.

Snape smirked slightly. “I assure you, Mr. Potter, I have not attempted to access your mind; you would certainly know if I had.”

Harry let out a breath, but he still needed to know…

“How is Legilimency performed, sir?” Harry asked, half-expecting Snape to refuse to answer.

“To perform Legilimency, one must maintain eye contact with the individual on whom he intends to perform it,” said Snape, surprisingly forthright. “Even then, one can only detect surface thoughts and emotions. For instance, I, while maintaining eye contact with another, am always aware if I am being lied to, unless, of course, the individual is a competent Occlumens himself.”

_He’s like a human lie detector. Better make sure not to look at him the next time I lie._

“How can Occlumency help with- with sleep?” It was a bit ridiculous that he couldn't actually say the word nightmare out loud. As if he hadn't just completely humiliated himself in front of Snape while in the midst of a particularly awful one. He set his jaw and forced himself to look up when Snape spoke.

“The first step towards guarding one’s mind is to clear it, which certainly assists in preventing nightmares.”

Snape paused for a moment.

“If you would like, I am willing to assist you in clearing your mind.”

Whatever Snape's motives were, this offer, if it worked, was too beneficial to turn down. If the nightmares stopped, he would stop being weak and he would never have to remember any of it. But would Snape somehow gain easier access into his mind if he helped him?

“How would you teach me?” Harry asked.

Snape looked as though he understood Harry’s hesitation. He pulled out his wand and set it on the dresser behind him before Harry had a chance to tense up.

“I will simply provide you with verbal instructions in the methods of clearing your mind, nothing more.”

Harry considered it. What could it hurt?

He nodded his head.

Snape shifted his stance, and, in that moment, Harry could picture him standing in front of a classroom full of deadly silent students, each too cowed to so much as breathe too loudly.

“The first step in clearing your mind, which has proven effective for most individuals, is to envision a place in which you feel safe and calm. It may be a place you have actually been, or simply an imaginative figment. Allow the memory to conquest the mind entirely, emptying it of all other thoughts.”

Snape was standing far enough away from the bed that Harry's need to keep track of the man's movements did not overtake his ability to think.

_A safe place? Nowhere on the streets, definitely not. Nothing at the Dursleys. A library?_

At first, Harry thought it might work, but he found that he concentrated on the knowledge he had gained there instead of the comfort it brought him. That just brought him back to his discovery about Dumbledore, and the subsequent anger.

Suddenly, it came to Harry; he could’ve hit himself for not thinking of it sooner. A memory, growing gradually clearer, blossomed in his mind. A small, warm space, far away, with a quiet, yet comforting presence beside him…

_Harry was eight, and he was pulling weeds in the garden of number four, Privet Drive. The sun beat down uncomfortably on the back of his neck, and the sound of children enjoying their Saturday afternoon echoed behind him._

_He hated hated_ hated _this. He hated being at the mercy of the Dursleys, who, if they thought they could get away with it, would probably drown him like one of Aunt Marge’s dogs. He hated that Dudley got everyone and he got nothing. He hated that he couldn’t control this strange power he had, and all it did was make the Dursleys hate him more, and even fear him, and that all he had to show for it was a mass of bruising on his abdomen, which throbbed horribly every time he moved._

_Lately, Vernon had taken to coming at him from behind and yanking him by the hair, for no reason at all. The man’s behavior had shifted recently from a more distant disdain to an active and growing fury which he never failed to unleash on Harry. And Harry knew why. The powers that had started making themselves known early in his life seemed to have grown in the past year, often exploding out of him unpredictably and uncontrollably. And Harry could do nothing to stop it._

_Harry yanked out another weed, his shoulders jerking as the breeze caused some fallen leaves to rustle. Every sound seemed amplified, and his shoulders ached from their constant hunching, but he couldn’t relax them no matter how hard he tried. His hands trembled, and a handful of weeds fell from his slackened grip._

_That did it._

_Glancing around quickly, Harry got up and ran as fast as he could from the house. He knew he’d catch hell for this later, but right now, that didn’t matter. He just needed to get away._

_He alternated between running and jogging until he was a good distance away from the neighborhood, at which point he gradually slowed his pace, glancing around cautiously. This area did not look familiar; the gutters were piled with litter, the houses were run-down, and the lawns unkempt, a far cry from the orderliness and precision of Privet Drive. He was strolling now, a good deal calmer, kicking small pebbles as he walked._

_“Hey, you!” a voice called out suddenly._

_Harry jumped, quickly swiveling around toward the source of the noise. He relaxed minutely when he saw that it was only a kid, a young girl, who was jogging lightly toward him. She drew closer, and Harry watched her warily. Harry guessed that she was around his age, so, although she was a bit taller, he didn’t judge her to be much of a threat._

_“You looking for something?” the girl asked brusquely, brushing a mass of tangled brown hair out of her face. Her clothes were pretty unkempt, much like Harry’s, and when she spoke, Harry could see that she was missing a front tooth._

_“Who says I’m looking for anything?” Harry said defensively._

_The girl looked more closely at him. “Sometimes, I look for things too,” she said, her head cocked to the side. “I like to find places where no one will find me. A place where I’m in charge.”_

_Harry something in her voice made Harry look at her more closely, meeting her eyes. They were wide and blue-gray, and stood out strikingly against her tan skin. Their haunted quality reminded Harry of himself._

_Then, Harry realized, she knew. She was like him, she felt like he did. She knew how it felt to be worthless and unlovable and alone. And Harry could tell that she saw that in him, too._

_She held out a small hand. “I’m Jade.”_

_Harry slowly grasped her hand. “Harry,” he whispered._

_They looked at each other for a long moment._

_“I know a place,” she said in a low voice. Harry nodded. Without releasing his hand, she ran down the street, pulling Harry along._

_After a while, they reached a forest-like area. She led him through the trees, deeper and deeper, then stopped. She pointed. Harry looked up and saw what appeared to be a treehouse, though it looked as though it had been built a hundred years ago. She scampered up the tree, Harry at her heels, and they crawled inside._

_Harry looked around warily. The space was small, and the wood old, but it was thick and sturdy, and the little makeshift room felt warm. Jade sat with her back against the wall, and Harry mimicked her movement. His breathing inexplicably slowed, and the fear and tension of the day seemed less significant. Neither of them spoke, but Jade’s presence felt calming. Harry knew she understood, and with her, inside this small, wooden sanctuary, he didn’t have to hide._

_Harry came back to the treehouse with Jade quite a few times over the following months. They never talked about it, but Harry knew she had it bad where she lived, and she knew that of him. Jade was the first person he’d ever met who knew him and smiled at him anyway. She accepted him, and she seemed to need Harry just as much as he needed her._

_Having Jade made it easier for Harry to cope, even though Vernon’s rage only seemed to grow. Harry had never seen Jade injured, and he wasn’t quite sure what went on in her home, but she never spoke of it. Neither of them did, really; just being near each other in the small, wooden treehouse was enough._

_One day, when Harry was already nine, he couldn’t find Jade. He eventually found out that she’d been sent to live with her mum, though he had no idea where. Harry was happy that she’d gotten out of her hell-hole, he really was, but now, he was alone again. The loss of Jade’s company had been one of the last straws that had pushed him to finally run from the Dursleys._

Harry let the memory of sitting with Jade in the tree house wash over him as he leaned back into his pillows. He felt little fear or suspicion, despite Snape’s presence in the room. Harry vaguely heard him murmuring instructions, to let the memory engulf him, to think of nothing else.

It was much easier to do than Harry had expected

“Thank you, sir,” he murmured drowsily.

He didn’t fall asleep until Snape had left the room, though.

***

Harry opened his eyes, slowly for once. While he had dreamed last night, he could only recall vaguely unpleasant scenes.

Apparently the Occlumency stuff had worked. 

Harry wasn’t sure what to think. Snape had really done him a good turn, here, conspiracy or not. Was he really just trying to be helpful? Did he actually… care?

_No. He can’t care. Even if he does it won’t last. It’s better to never have something than to have it and lose it._

But was it, though? While it had hurt immensely when Jade had left, it was still a comfort to know that someone had once been there for him. At any rate, the memory of her and the treehouse had helped with his nightmares.

_She didn’t mean to leave me. Did my parents mean to leave me?_

Harry brushed off those thoughts like an irksome fly. He was treading in dangerous waters, thinking that way. Better not to feel. He hadn’t thought about Jade in ages, it had been easier to just push the memories away. Thinking about her last night had brought it all back.

_You’re never going to see her again, so quit harping on it._

A bit later, Harry entered the kitchen and sat in his usual place. Snape looked up when he entered.

“I trust you slept well, Mr. Potter?” he enquired.

_He really did help me out. Why did he do it? Why bother?_

Snape raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Thank you for last night,” Harry said quietly, feeling awkward. Snape tilted his head slightly.

“It was no trouble. I am pleased to hear that it was of some use to you.”

_Why did he do it?_

“Why?”

_Did I really just ask that?_

“Why am I pleased to hear that the Occlumency was of use, or why did I teach it to you?” Snape asked, the very picture of perplexed. Harry was pretty sure Snape knew what he meant, but he just wanted Harry, for whatever reason, to vocalize his question.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. “Why did you help me?” he mumbled.

Snape was looking at him calculatingly. Harry avoided his eyes. He wasn’t going to take any chances, now that he knew Snape was an Occlumens.

“As you are, presently, a child under my care, it is my duty to ensure your well-being.” Snape paused. “I had been neglecting that thus far, an oversight on my part.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “But… it’s not as though I was hurt or anything,” he responded cautiously.

Snape gave him a sharp look. “One’s well-being encompasses more than just physical health.”

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“Is that truly such a novel concept?” Snape asked, watching Harry carefully.

Harry shrugged.

“Did your relative care nothing for you, Mr. Potter?”

_No, we are_ not _going there._

Harry shrugged again.

“Again, I would appreciate a vocal response, Mr. Potter,” Snape said sharply.

_Why does it matter?_

Snape was still waiting for his answer.

“Does it really matter, sir? They’re dead.” Harry said, in a deliberately dispassionate tone.

Snape didn’t speak for a moment, and Harry forced himself not to look away.

“It very well might.”

Snape said nothing more after that, though he glanced at Harry intermittently throughout the meal. By the time he was done, Harry was more than ready to leave. He hastened to the library, all but burying himself in books in an attempt to distract himself from all the irritating thoughts.

***

Later, on his way to the kitchen for lunch, Harry cast about for something to say to Snape, so he could avoid a repeat of that morning’s conversation.

When he sat down, Snape was studying him again, so he opened his mouth, then closed it again.

_Just ask the question. If he didn’t get mad when you kicked him last night, he won’t get mad from a question._

“Sir, can I ask a question?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Certainly you may,” said Snape, one eyebrow raised.

“Does magic follow the laws of physics?”

Snape’s forehead creased slightly. “Interesting question. While most wizards opt to remain ignorant of the natural sciences,” he said, “according to my observations, it does. Have you any particular examples in mind?”

“The Hover Charm. How can something resist gravity?”

“Well, Mr. Potter, can you think of any muggle objects that appear to defy gravity in a similar fashion?”

Harry thought for a moment. Airplanes? No, they didn’t just hover, they relied on a forward force as well as lift, and they were also designed to use air pressure to their advantage. The Hover Charm allowed an object of any shape to float, without necessarily moving. Then it came to him.

“Balloons?”

Snape nodded at Harry, an odd expression on his face. “Indeed. And are you aware of what allows balloons to hover in the air?”

Harry nodded. “The warm air in the balloon is less dense than the surrounding cooler air.”

“Correct. The Hover Charm alters the state of the molecules of the object at which it is directed, causing them to behave in much the same way.”

“It heats them up?”

“In a sense, though the temperature of the object does not physically change. Instead, the molecules of both the object and the surrounding atmosphere are manipulated to behave as though the object has been heated to the point where its density is less than that of room-temperature air.”

_So magic doesn’t defy science, it just sort of manipulates it._

“Why don’t wizards learn about this?”

Snape titled his head. “Most wizards do not bother themselves to expand their knowledge in this area, as they tend to view it as quite unnecessary.”

_I guess they would, because everything comes so easily without it. But if they knew more…_

“If wizards did learn about it, wouldn’t they be able to create more spells?”

Snape had an unreadable expression on his face.

“They would. However, it is the best interest of both wizards and muggles alike that they remain largely ignorant. Can you think why?”

Harry deliberated for a moment.

“They’d have too much power?”

Snape gave Harry an odd look before slowly inclining his head.

They both finished their meal in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Snape never does what a decade of prior experiences would have Harry expect.


	8. The Closest Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stared at the cauldrons piled in the cupboard, in an attempt to ensure that it hadn’t been real. To assure himself that he wouldn’t be thrown back in there to rot as soon as he did something wrong. Snape wouldn’t do that. Would he?

Harry could scarcely believe that he’d been living with Snape for nearly a month and nothing terrible had happened.

Snape had continued to assist Harry with clearing his mind after that first night, but eventually, he’d been able to do it himself. Although the nightmares had by no means abated, they had lessened to a degree.

Yet Snape persisted in subtly probing Harry for answers about his relatives, and Harry avoided the questions every time. Snape wasn’t letting up, however, and it put Harry increasingly on edge. Even so, Harry found, against his better judgment, that he didn’t really mind the man when he wasn’t asking questions.  Snape had begun to allow Harry regular access to the lab with supervision, which Harry definitely appreciated. He was picking up brewing skills at a steady pace, and Snape, sometimes, seemed almost pleased with his progress. All in all, Snape was being decent, and Harry could not think of any ulterior motive he might have to do so.

_ Maybe this is how people are supposed to act, _ Harry thought, his legs swinging from the tree branch he was perched upon. Snape had instructed Harry to get some fresh air before joining him in the lab because he’d had ‘little interest in reassembling his laboratory upon its demolition by hyperactive children’. 

_ He’s acting like… I don’t know. It’s like he doesn’t mind my being here. _

That thought somehow bothered Harry. Was this how normal people lived? Three meals a day, nothing to worry about except keeping their things organized, with an adult who didn't-

_ Just stop. What’s the point? Don’t get used to this. After school starts he won’t take me back, or Dumbledore will send me somewhere else when he realizes that Snape’s all right. _

The thought of Dumbledore brought back a wave of fury; an echo of the rush of emotion he’d felt in the library that day. Harry shoved it away forcefully.

_ Just get used to the fact that nothing will ever be easy. This can’t last. Either Snape will blow up eventually, or you’ll get kicked out. _

He kicked the branch, hard.

_ Damn Dumbledore, damn him for leaving me with… them. _

He needed to stop thinking about this; he hadn’t survived this long by dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. As a distraction, Harry wrapped his legs around the tree branch and allowed himself to dangle upside down, his torso swaying. The rush of blood to his brain seemed to shove the unwanted thoughts out of the way, sweeping them away as a rushing stream might. He hung there for a while, ignoring the pounding of his head.

“Potter!”

Harry started violently, his legs nearly losing their grip on the branch. He began to slip backwards, and just managed to grab hold of the branch with his hands. Panting slightly from his near-fall, he pulled himself back up into a sitting position, and he looked down to see the intimidating figure of Snape, who was glaring irately up at him.

“What was the meaning of that idiotic display?” Snape asked furiously.

Harry froze.

_ What did I do wrong? Does he think I would break the branch or something? _

“I require an answer, Potter, or do you deem it too much trouble?” Snape bit out.

_ What do I say? What does he want? _

“I felt like it,” Harry heard himself say, feeling oddly detached from the fear that was only making itself known in the form of his shoulders tightening and his breaths quickening. Snape couldn’t get to him up here, anyway.

“You  _ Felt.  _ Like it,” Snape hissed. There was a short pause.

“Get down. Now.”

_ No! no no no. This is it. I dunno why he’s mad, but he’ll give it to me now. I’m not letting this happen again. _

“No,” Harry said, in what he hoped was a steady tone. Snape's face grew darker.

“Did you just tell me  _ no _ , Potter?”

Harry clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt.

“If you do not come down immediately, you will most certainly regret it.”

Harry didn’t move.

_ I won’t like the consequences whether I go down or not. At least I’m out of range here. _

Then Snape drew his wand.

Harry felt the previously slow-building fear burst forth, and with it, his magic. Reflexively, he shot out his palms, releasing a surge of energy that threw Snape backwards a good ten feet. Harry immediately jumped down from his branch, landing painfully on his ankle in his haste. He was pretty sure he felt a bone snap, but, at the moment, it didn’t matter. He sprinted away from Snape as quickly as he could, the adrenaline masking the pain in his ankle. He ran until he hit the protective spells surrounding the property.

In his frustration, he pounded at the barrier with his fists, and he was shoved abruptly backwards by an unseen force. Without pausing, Harry turned to the side and simply ran along the mist instead, until the exhaustion and pain began to catch up with him.  His ankle now throbbing abominably, he slowed to a stop and dropped to the ground. Harry sat there, injured left ankle splayed out in front of him, his arms wrapped around his right knee.

_ When he finds me, I’m dead! Dead dead dead dead- Stop the stupid shaking. Stop being scared. Stop being weak. _

All too soon, as Harry knew would happen, a shadow descended over him. He raised his head with an almost agonizing slowness, his eyes stopping somewhere around Snape's torso.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathed. Apologies usually helped, didn’t they? Snape closed his eyes, inhaling, then looked down at Harry.

“Stand up.”

Harry attempted to stand, trying to lay as little weight on his left foot as possible. Being as exhausted as he was, however, he swayed, inadvertently landing pressure on his injured ankle. He crumpled back to the ground with a barely concealed gasp. Though he tried not not to show his pain, he couldn’t help biting down on his lower lip, letting out an almost inaudible groan.

“You have injured yourself,” Snape said in an inscrutable tone of voice, stating more than asking.

Harry didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say?

Snape abruptly leaned down towards Harry, who stiffened, his fists clenching in expectation of what he knew was sure to come. But, instead, Snape wrapped one arm around Harry’s upper back, and the other beneath his knees, lifting him up as though he was a toddler. Snape began walking towards the house, Harry struggling in his grip.

“Remain still, Potter, or I will immobilize you,” Snape growled.

Harry immediately froze. He had no doubt that Snape would follow through on his threat.

_ He’s… carrying me. Why on earth would he  _ do  _ that? _

Snape entered the house and walked to the sitting room, depositing Harry carefully on the couch. He looked Harry in the eye.  “I will tend to your injury, Mr. Potter, and you will  _ not  _ fight me on this.”

Harry nodded; he was exhausted, and he couldn’t run if he tried. Harry watched as Snape carefully stretched out Harry’s left leg across his lap, waving his wand over the injured ankle.

“Your ankle has been broken in two places, and the injury has undoubtedly been aggravated by your foolhardy flight.” His black eyes bored into Harry, a severe expression on his face. Harry deliberately avoided his gaze. Snape pointed his wand at Harry’s foot, removing his shoe and sock, and Harry stared with detached interest at his ankle, which was reddened and swollen, resting at an unnatural angle.

“I will perform a charm that will set the bones,” Snape said in a businesslike manner. “You will experience an odd sensation.”

Snape waved his wand, and Harry suppressed a shudder as he felt his bones shift back into place. It didn’t quite hurt, but felt strange and uncomfortable, and he held his breath until the sensation faded, leaving his ankle aching. Snape flicked his wand again, wrapping Harry’s ankle and foot in bandages, which he then placed on a rapidly conjured footstool.

The job done, Snape focused his gaze on Harry, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, unsure of what else to say. Snape had just  _ healed  _ his injury, as though Harry had  _ not  _ just thrown him ten feet across the ground.

“For what, precisely, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked curtly. Was this Snape’s idea of a game?

“For using magic on you, sir.”

Snape just shook his head, forehead slightly creased.

“No, Mr. Potter, it is clear that you simply reacted out of fear, as I drew my wand and did not warn you. I was simply planning on levitating you to the ground, but I should not have attempted so in the manner that I did. That is not why I am displeased.”

Harry did not know what the man wanted from him. He ventured another guess. “For running away?”

Snape just shook his head again, looking exasperated. “While you most certainly should  _ not  _ have run on an injured ankle, it is clear that that too, was simply a fear response. When the situation dictates so, it is a useful attribute to react both quickly and through pain. While it is important that you know that I do not pose such danger, I cannot blame you for believing so.”

_ What the bloody…? So what  _ is  _ he mad about? _

Snape looked profoundly irritated. “I will spell it out for you, Potter, as it seems you require me to do so,” he said dryly. “The reason for my displeasure was your reckless behavior in the tree.”

Harry stared at the man, feeling at an absolute loss. “Why?”

Snape looked as though he was trying valiantly to alleviate his frustration. “Mr. Potter, had you fallen from the ridiculous position you saw fit to assume, you might have broken your  _ neck _ ,” he hissed, leaning forward slightly.

Harry leaned back, a bit unnerved. Snape was angry because he, Harry, could have been hurt?

“Why would that matter to you?”

Snape looked ready to throw something. “For the love of…” he muttered. He let out another frustrated sigh. “Mr. Potter,” the man continued, speaking slowly and intensely. “It has become increasingly apparent to me that there has not been an adult in your life who has seen fit to ensure your welfare.”

Harry stared at his knees.

“That has changed. I am currently responsible for your welfare, and under my care, you will not behave in a manner that puts yourself at risk.”

Snape seemed to be waiting for something.

“Er… I won’t do it again?” Harry tried, glancing up.

The man just looked tired, now. “You most certainly will not. If you  _ do  _ attempt such a foolhardy stunt again, you will not like the consequences.”

_ Okay. So if I do something that might cause me harm, he’ll hit me? Where’s the logic in  _ that _? _

Apparently, Harry's thoughts were showing more plainly on his face then he realized, because Snape seemed to recognize Harry’s confusion for what it was. “I will reiterate, Mr. Potter, that I will not ever raise a hand or wand to you with intent to cause you harm.”

Harry looked down again, biting on the inside of his lip.

“As it is, I will overlook today’s idiotic behavior. You will keep as little weight on that ankle as possible, and it should be properly healed by the morning. Do  _ not  _ go outside; I will escort you to the library if you wish.”

Harry nodded cautiously, allowing Snape to pull him up and help him to the library. He felt a bit ridiculous; it wasn’t as though he’d never walked off an injury before. He couldn’t even count the amount of broken bones he’d had in his lifetime. It was all entirely unnecessary, but he allowed Snape to assist him, for fear of angering him further.

Later, at dinner, to where Snape had, thankfully, allowed Harry to walk unassisted, Harry was praying to whatever higher power might exist for Snape not to question him.

No such luck.

“For exactly how long have you been consciously utilizing magic, Mr. Potter?”

_ That’s not such a bad question. Nothing about the Dursleys, at least.  _

“Consciously, sir?”

Snape gave Harry a discerning look. “Mr. Potter, episodes of accidental magic do not occur in the direct manner in which you did; generally, it is quite difficult to detect the source.”

_ Really? Well, I can’t lie my way out of this, he’ll know in a second. _

“A few years,” Harry answered carefully.

Snape raised his eyebrows. “At exactly what age did it start?”

Harry paused. It was hard to say. He’d begun to notice a pattern of odd things happening around him when he’d been really young, no older than four or five, and it hadn’t taken long to realize that those odd things made the Dursleys hate him. But the directed, often explosive magic? He hadn’t always meant to do it, but with Vernon’s increased outbursts, it had been hard not to use it to defend himself.

“I would say at around eight,” Harry answered. Snape was looking at him oddly. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all, Mr. Potter. It is simply quite unusual for one as young as that to gain control of their magic.”

Harry suppressed a grimace. So he was abnormal even for wizards? Wonderful.

“What prompted you to attempt to gain control, Mr. Potter?”

_ Great, back to this. _

Harry shrugged.

“A verbal answer, Potter,” Snape said sharply.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Snape looked highly skeptical, but, thankfully, said no more.

***

The following day, Harry had just joined Snape in the lab, and he was skimming through the ingredients for the potion he’d been instructed to brew.

_ A standard size 3 brass cauldron is required.. _ . Harry glanced around. Most of the cauldrons he could see were pewter, and the only brass cauldron was a size two.

“Sir,” Harry called out tentatively. “This potion requires a size three brass cauldron. I don’t see any.”

“There are spares in the storage closet,” Snape responded without looking up, pointing towards the stairs.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry walked towards the stairs, and opened a small door beneath them.

He froze.

_ The cupboard under the stairs. _

Suddenly, Harry was no longer in Snape’s potions lab…

_ He was in the cupboard, trembling all over. He felt simultaneously hot and cold. His breaths were coming in short, shallow gasps, and it seemed as though the room was engulfed in a thick fog. His throat ached abominably with the effort not to cough. Petunia hated the sound of it. _

_ He distantly heard the cupboard door open, and Petunia’s shrill voice yelling at him to do something; perhaps tend to the garden, clean the bathroom, wash the floors… Harry didn’t respond. _

_ He felt himself being shaken. He looked up at Aunt Petunia, and thought he caught a strange expression cross her face fleetingly. Something akin to… guilt? The look on her face was then rapidly replaced by a sneer of disgust. She dropped a bottle of water beside him and left. _

_ Harry curled up into a tight ball, biting down hard on his fist as he felt a wave of sickness crash over him, flinging himself to the side just in time to avoid vomiting on his blanket. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gulped down some water. _

_ As he lay there, alone in the dark cupboard, beside a pool of his own sick, his entire body shivering, he felt the first beginnings of emptiness, when he realized that a bottle of water was the closest thing to love he would ever receive. _

Harry felt something cold splash suddenly on his face. He jumped, then looked around. He wasn’t in his cupboard, he was in Snape’s potions lab, and the man was standing in front of him, looking at him with an expression Harry couldn’t read. Snape drew slightly closer to him, and Harry immediately backed away. Snape stopped, and stepped a few paces backwards.

Harry glanced at the open door of the cupboard, then back at the room, and then at Snape.

He could feel himself trembling, but the vivid images were fading away, slowly. He stared at the cauldrons piled in the cupboard, in an attempt to ensure that it hadn’t been real. To assure himself that he wouldn’t be thrown back in there to rot as soon as he did something wrong. Snape wouldn’t do that. Would he? Maybe if Harry really, really messed up, he’d-

“Mr. Potter, are you quite all right?” Snape’s voice was quiet, hesitant, even. Harry nodded jerkily, without looking at him.

The man was silent for a moment, before the expression on his face seemed to clear, and he gestured towards Harry. “Come,” he said in a low tone, though it had lost its hesitance. Harry straightened his shoulders and followed Snape to a small room that adjoined the lab, where the man transfigured a wooden chair into a softer, padded seat. Harry sank into it, hunching in on himself.

“A calming drought, perhaps?”

Harry shook his head quickly. Snape nodded once, and remained blessedly silent for the next few moments.

“Mr. Potter, might I ask what brought that on?” Snape then asked that same low tone. Harry was quiet for a moment. Had it been a flashback? That had never happened before, though, admittedly, the last time Harry had been in the vicinity of a cupboard like that, he’d actually been shoved into it.

“I don’t know,” was all Harry could think to respond. Snape looked skeptical. “Are you quite sure you do not, Mr. Potter?”

He stared resolutely at the floor and shook his head.

_ Let it go. Please. _

“Very well, Mr. Potter.”

They both remained in silence, Harry seated rigidly on the chair, Snape standing, facing him, a few feet away.

Eventually, Snape spoke. “Would you prefer to remain here, or would you like to continue with your potion?”

_ Yes. A distraction. _

“I’d like to continue.”

Snape inclined his head, gesturing for Harry to follow him out of the room. He then walked over the cupboard, retrieving the required cauldron.

“Why not just summon it?” Harry asked, feeling as though his mouth had formed the words of its own volition.

“Anti-summoning spells. Such a precaution is necessary in a potions lab, considering the myriad potential explosives in the room.”

Snape set up Harry’s cauldron for him, and Harry began to brew, slowly calming with the repetitive actions. He noticed Snape intermittently glancing at him, and then at the cupboard, and back again.

***

Harry woke up suddenly, gasping for breath.

_ Stupid Occlumency didn’t work. _

He wanted to tear his hair out, throw something, rip something apart, anything to distract himself from the memories. He settled for, once again, hitting the back of his head against the headboard, over and over again, hard.

Suddenly, he felt the impact buffered by a relatively soft surface. He flitted his eyes to the side. Snape had come in without Harry noticing, and he’d caught Harry’s head in his hand, preventing him from hitting it again. Harry stared at Snape, but didn’t move. Snape looked back, his gaze oddly… softer than usual. He didn’t move his hand.

The touch felt unfamiliar, but not in a way that made Harry want to escape it. They both remained in that position for a few moments, with the back of Harry’s head resting in Snape’s large, calloused hand. Inexplicably, Harry’s breathing steadied, and his heart rate slowed to a calm, even pace.

Harry felt Snape’s fingers card through his hair gently before he let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Dumbledore pays a visit. It goes about as well as one could expect.


	9. Chess Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry knew, despite his own magical abilities, that Dumbledore was far more powerful than he, and if the man wanted something, he would get it, no matter what Harry had to say about it.

Severus was sequestered in his office, composing his next letter in response to the foreign potioneer with whom he was involved in an extended correspondence. Though Severus much preferred to work alone, this particular potioneer possessed knowledge that rivaled Severus’ own, so the woman was too beneficial a resource to discount. Even if her methods tended towards experimental to the point of recklessness, at times.

Severus re-inked his quill.

 _I wish to express my appreciation for your timely response concerning my query regarding the enhancement of the Adrenaline Draught,_ he wrote. 

_The contents of your previous missive have been most illuminating; particularly the information provided on the myriad beneficial effects of foxglove roots used in absorbable potions. Might I suggest, however, that although foxglove roots added in modest amounts to this particular draught would indeed increase the potion’s longevity as well improve its consistency, it is likely that, due to its alkaline quality…_

To his annoyance, Severus found that his thoughts persisted in wandering toward other matters; namely, the boy. It had been quite surprising to find that the boy possessed an aptitude for brewing. The child had a degree of patience and an eye for detail that few in his age group could rival.

_The boy is quite intelligent. I never imagined I would think as much of a Potter._

But Severus had not been thinking of the child as his father for quite a while. Loath as he was to admit it, the child’s company was not wholly unwelcome. In fact, Severus did enjoy the verbal sparring he and the boy engaged in; it was interesting to contemplate the extent of the child’s ingenuity.

But it was not just the boy’s intelligence that had Severus wondering.

_What has that boy seen in his short life?_

Indeed, the child was proving to be considerably more complicated than he ever would have foreseen.

_Nightmares? Flashbacks? The boy has clearly been traumatized. Abuse, unfortunately, is all too probable._

It had been a few days since the boy’s episode in the potions laboratory, but Severus could not put it out of his mind. The deadened look he’d seen on the child’s face was not easily forgotten. It was not an expression he would ever think to associate with a child. It was the look of a grown man who had long despaired of any hope of salvation.

_The child needs more- deserves more- than I can provide for him. I am not equipped to deal with a young trauma victim. My mere presence bears the capacity to terrify adolescents into submission. How can I provide such a child with the safe environment he so desperately requires?_

Severus had endeavored to draw the boy out on many occasions, attempting to gain an inkling of what the boy had gone through, but the child was, quite understandably, resistant to his overtures.

_I am not the person for this job._

But who was, really?

Severus was pulled out of his thoughts when a Patronus in the form of a phoenix appeared before him.

“ _Would you be so kind as to avail your home to my presence at eight o’clock this evening? I wish to discuss with you several matters regarding your upcoming NEWT level class,”_ Dumbledore’s voice spoke from the Patronus. Sighing, Severus gave his consent, and the Patronus vanished.

_Upcoming NEWT classes, my foot. He wishes to ascertain that I’ve not yet throttled the boy._

Severus rolled his eyes as he signed his letter and sent it off with a wave of his wand before climbing the stairs to the kitchen, finding the prepared lunch from the elves arranged on the table as usual. He sat, and, like clockwork, the boy entered the kitchen and sat in his usual place, avoiding Severus’ eyes. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the clinking of silverware.

Severus cleared his throat. The child looked up warily, and Severus could detect the anxiety hidden beneath the blank mask the boy so often hid behind.

“Professor Dumbledore will be paying a visit at eight o’clock this evening. I felt it prudent that you be informed, as I’ve no doubt he’d like to speak with you.”

Severus saw the boy’s face turn stony upon his mention of Dumbledore. Severus narrowed his eyes.

“Do you find that objectionable, Mr. Potter?”

The boy looked up, and for a moment, Severus could see unmistakable fear, and, interestingly, rage, before the mask was back in place.

“No, sir. May I go?” the boy asked in a flat tone.

Severus frowned. “You’ve eaten very little.”

The boy’s face tightened. “I’m done.”

Severus paused for a moment. Clearly, the boy was nearing the end of his rope, however masterfully he was hiding it.

“Very well.”

The boy left the room as quickly as he could without running, and, by the sound of it, went outside.

_The boy did not appear to be particularly disinclined toward Albus’ presence when he first arrived. He has more reason to dislike me than the headmaster. What has changed?_

***

Harry tried to force back the anger burning inside of him as he sat on the branch of his tree, upright this time. The _nerve_ Dumbledore had, showing up here. Harry doubted he’d be able to remain civil toward the man when he arrived.

 _He’s really coming to see if his plan is working. And when he finds out it’s not, he’ll take me away. Unless Snape really_ is _part of the plot…_

But the more time Harry spent around the man, the less likely it seemed. Snape really did seem to, dare he say it, care, at least, sometimes.

_Maybe he won’t let Dumbledore take me away…Yeah, right. You’re an idiot. Of course he will. He might be decent, but he doesn’t want me here. He’ll be glad to get rid of me._

And it occurred to Harry, just then, that he didn’t want to go. He liked living here. He liked the food, the books, and brewing potions. He even liked the fact that Snape helped him with his nightmares, loath as he was to admit it. And even when the man was angry, he had never hurt Harry, aside from that time in the library. And even then, he hadn’t really done it deliberately.

_Just let Dumbledore try to take me…_

But Harry knew, despite his own magical abilities, that Dumbledore was far more powerful than he, and if Dumbledore wanted something, he would get it, no matter what Harry had to say about it.

_In the end, I’m powerless. Dumbledore controls everything. He’s got the entire magical population of Britain in his pocket, according to the books, anyway. Next to him, I haven't got a chance. I'm helpless._

In a moment of defiance, Harry slid off the branch until he was hanging by his hands, then let go and dropped several feet to the ground. He landed painlessly, despite his hands and knees taking the brunt of the fall. His magic must have played a hand in that, though Harry wasn’t particularly inclined to examine that possibility in that moment.

_Read books. Now. Must stop thinking._

Harry hastened to the library, grabbing hold of the book he was in the middle of, almost frantically.

_Hmm… The five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration… Limits. That’s what hopped-up, oh so powerful, conceited bastards who don’t know how to mind their own stupid business need._

Harry read on, the topic providing a brief distraction.

_Exceptions of transfiguration…_

_Food can’t be created from nothing or transfigured from any random object. Guess that makes sense, it would be too easy otherwise. Same with money. I guess nothing of real value can be created with magic. So even if someone did create food, it wouldn’t really sustain them. Water can be conjured, but water is really part of the atmosphere, so the magic just changes the state of it. So you can basically transfigure something into something else of equal value, but that’s about it. So here’s more proof that magic works with physics; nothing is created or destroyed, just altered. Even when things are conjured, it looks like molecules are brought together, not created out of nothing._

This stuff really _was_ fascinating.

 _Better get a wand before I test it out. Who knows what might happen, otherwise. How_ will _I get a wand, anyway? Maybe Snape will take me to get it. I swear, I’m not going_ anywhere _with Dumbledore._

The anger was back, now.

***

The boy showed up for dinner, promptly as always, but, again, picked at his food. Severus watched out of the corner of his eye, somewhat distastefully, as the boy pushed his food around his plate.

“As you ate little at lunch, surely you have regained some appetite?” Severus asked the boy after a few moments of witnessing the mutilation of perfectly good food.

The boy finally looked up then, and Severus was met again with the rage he'd seen earlier on the boy's face before his expression cleared into a mask of cool indifference.

“I suppose I haven’t, sir,” the boy answered, the very picture of politeness.

_I cannot overlook this any longer. But I cannot force him to eat, either. Most likely, he will fail to understand why it is of my concern._

Severus set his jaw. “Nonetheless, food is a requirement, and I will ask that you attempt to consume an acceptable portion.”

The boy looked at him again, a hard expression on his face. “I prefer not to, sir.”

_How dare the boy defy me-! Do not lose your calm. The child does not respond positively to anger, as you well know._

Severus took a moment to regain control, then spoke again. “That was not a request, Mr. Potter.”

“It sounded like one,” the boy replied in a clipped tone.

Severus clenched a fist, but his expression remained much the same. “Allow me to rephrase. You _will_ consume adequate serving of the meal set before you.”

The boy was now unsuccessfully attempting to hide his anger. “And if I don’t?” he bit out.

 _Damn, I was hoping it would not come to this. What am_ _I to do? Sweet Merlin, I am not qualified to care for children in this capacity, especially not traumatized, underweight children who cannot do with another missed meal._

Severus took several deep breaths.

“What is troubling you, Mr. Potter?”

The boy looked momentarily unsettled, as Severus knew he would, before schooling his expression.

“Nothing,” the boy replied flatly.

“Oh?” Severus raised an eyebrow. “I beg to differ. It is quite clear to me that Professor Dumbledore’s coming visit has upset you in some way.”

To his credit, the child did not attempt to deny it; it seemed he knew when he had been cornered. He shifted his eyes away, not speaking.

“Would you care to expound upon your apparent aversion toward the headmaster?” Severus asked.

The boy was silent for a moment.

“No, sir.”

“That is not an acceptable answer.”

“Then I don't have one.”

 _I cannot win,_ Severus realized. _Short of Legilimency, which is certainly not an option here, I cannot insist he enlighten me, nor can I force-feed the boy._

“I will not insist you provide me with an explanation. However, you will not leave this table until you have eaten. The choice is yours.”

Severus watched the boy carefully. His careful control had clearly slipped from his grasp, once again, and Severus could very near hear the boy's teeth grind together as he struggled to contain himself. The boy's shoulders were taut, drawn up around his neck, and his eyes were wide and seemingly unable to settle on anything in particular as they darted back and forth. After a moment, the boy lifted his fork and, with a sullen air, shoved a few bites of food in his mouth. Severus did not comment on the boy’s lack of manners. At least he had obeyed.

 _In truth, his defiant attitude is not a bad thing. It shows that he does not fear me quite so much. Perhaps I_ have _done something right._

One the boy had consumed about half of the food on his plate, he set down his fork. “May I be excused?’ he asked monotonously. 

Severus nodded his acquiescence. “You may, though I will expect your presence in the sitting room at eight.”

The boy nodded, then hurried off in the direction of the library.

***

At precisely eight o’clock, Albus emerged from the fireplace, dusting ash from his mercifully navy robes.

“Ah, Severus, how good of you to have me,” said Albus, in far too cheerful a tone.

“Do have a seat, Albus,” said Severus stiffly.

_This will not go well._

He tried to warn Albus with his eyes, and the irritating twinkle in Albus’ eyes appeared to dim ever so slightly. Other than that, however, he gave no indication that he had understood. The boy entered the room just then, and Severus pointed toward the seat opposite the couch on which Albus was seated. The boy kept his head down as he sat, his hands in fists.

There was a long and unbearably tense moment of silence before Albus broke it.

“Harry, it is good to see you again,” Albus said amicably. The boy jerked his head slightly but did not respond. Albus chose not to take the hint. “How have you and Severus been faring?”

The boy still refused to speak; the expression on his face was stony, and he was staring blankly at the wall behind Albus.

“Mr. Potter, it is customary to treat guests with a modicum of courtesy. Do provide Professor Dumbledore with a response,” Severus said sharply.

The boy’s eyes glanced toward him for a moment, then he looked at Albus. “Adequately, sir,” the boy said shortly.

“Good to hear, good to hear,” said Albus, paying no heed to the boy’s rudeness. He seemed to understand that the child would not be saying anymore, however, and he rose. 

“Severus, I would like to discuss your coming NEWT class, as I mentioned…”

Severus inclined his head and rose as well. He looked down at the boy, who remained seated in the same rigid position.

“We will return shortly, Mr. Potter, so it is best you remain here. You may peruse the books on the shelves if you wish.”

The boy nodded, and Severus left the room with Albus and they entered Severus’ office.

“How has Harry been doing, Severus?”

_At least he’s no longer hiding behind the pretext of discussing my NEWT classes. That is something._

“Adequately, to quote the boy,” replied Severus dryly.

“The two of you have been getting along, I trust?” Albus’ eyes twinkled.

“Well enough, I suppose,” Severus admitted grudgingly. “The boy is most unlike his father.”

Instead of twinkling, Albus looked suddenly serious. “Have you drawn any conclusions as to explain the boy’s behavior?”

“The boy is reticent,” Severus said slowly. “He says very little, and any conclusions I may have drawn have been gleaned primarily from what he _hasn’t_ said.”

Albus tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrows in question.

“The boy suffers from recurring nightmares,” said Severus. “Rather intense ones, I might add.”

Albus sighed. “Have you…?”

“I have provided the boy with instructions of the rudimentary aspects of Occlumency. It is not just his nightmares, however. The boy had clearly been traumatized in some manner, though I cannot be certain as to how.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes, looking defeated. “I suspected as much when I first met the boy. He is not a child, really. It is clear that he has seen far too much. The look in his eyes…”

Severus’ eyes narrowed. “It is clear that the muggles, at the very least, were not fit guardians for the boy.”

_If he knew and did nothing…_

Albus looked as pained as Severus had ever seen him. “I did not know, Severus. Undoubtedly, the child’s experiences resulted from extreme negligence on my part, I readily admit.”

Severus’ nostrils flared.

“I was trying to protect him.” Albus spoke in barely more than a whisper.

_And that worked out admirably, did it not?_

But he knew it was true. Albus _had_ been attempting to protect the boy, as badly as it had turned out. If Severus thought about it, he was just as much to blame as Albus.

_I knew the boy was sent to the muggles. I also knew Petunia Evans, who clearly feared magic and despised those who practiced it. The jealousy, coupled with the fear, would not have endeared her to the boy. I should have known._

***

Harry sat stiffly on his chair, shredding a blank piece of parchment he’d procured from the library earlier. He didn’t bother to eavesdrop on Snape and Dumbledore this time. He knew what was going on.

_Dumbledore’s taking me away. Right now, he’s giving Snape the whole rundown about why it’s necessary. Dunno if Snape knows the real truth or not._

Despite the fact that, in a few moments, it would no longer matter, Harry hoped that Snape did not.

_I hate Dumbledore. I hate him worse than the Dursleys. I hate him more than Jade’s stepdad. When I know more magic, he’ll never know what hit him._

Harry shoved the handful of shredded parchment into his pocket. He really wanted to toss them on the floor, but that would be an idiotic move, as angry as he was. He kicked the leg of his chair, hard, but all that accomplished was to send a shooting pain up his foot. It also made him even angrier, and it was all he could do to tamp down on his emotions when some of the books on the shelves started thumping against one another. He breathed slowly and deliberately through his nose, forcing himself to calm enough for the books to stop moving.

A few moments later, Snape and Dumbledore walked back in. Harry immediately stood; he wasn’t going to go without a fight. He carefully tracked the movements of both men with his eyes, his body poised for flight. Dumbledore turned toward Harry, and he braced himself.

Dumbledore smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. It was funny how benign those eyes had seemed when Harry had first met Dumbledore.

_He’s evil._

“Harry, it is so good to see that you and Severus have been getting along.”

_What?_

Dumbledore walked closer, holding out a hand. Harry stumbled backward.

_Yeah, sure he wants to shake my hand. It’s just a ploy to drag me off somewhere. Oldest trick in the book._

Harry kept his eyes on Dumbledore, refusing to take the proffered hand. He could not read the man’s expression, but, inexplicably, Dumbledore dropped his hand and walked toward the fireplace.

“Thank you very much for your hospitality, Severus. I will be taking my leave now.”

He smiled at Harry again, and Harry glared back. Dumbledore scooped up a handful of the powder by the fireplace, Floo Powder, as Harry recalled, tossed it into the fire, and vanished in a flash of green flame.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry turned quickly. Snape was still standing there, and he did not look pleased.

“Would you care to explain your behavior?” Snape asked sharply.

Harry did not pretend to misunderstand. But what could he say? He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head slightly.

Snape's expression softened minutely. “Mr. Potter, I assure you, there is nothing to fear from Professor Dumbledore.”

_Am I giving off that impression? Not good._

Harry straightened his shoulders. “I don’t _fear_ him. I just don’t like him.”

Snape looked disbelieving, but he didn’t voice his thoughts on that matter, whatever they were. Instead, he shifted his stance slightly, folding his arms, and Harry could clearly read the disapproval on his face. He looked away. He didn't like the feeling that look was giving him, and he couldn't begin to understand why.

“Whatever your feelings are," Snape said. "Professor Dumbledore is your elder, and your future headmaster. You are therefore obligated to be respectful.”

Harry nodded shortly. It wasn’t as though he could tell Snape the truth. And he was just confused, now. Had he miscalculated? Maybe Dumbledore had an entirely different plan, or maybe he was just luring Harry into a false sense of security. Or maybe…

Harry jumped slightly when Snape cleared his throat. He looked up to see Snape peering at him oddly.

“A verbal response, Mr. Potter.”

 _Oh, right. He has this_ thing _about verbal answers…_

“Yes, sir.”

Snape spoke again. “When you begin your schooling, Mr. Potter, there may very well be professors with whom you feel you cannot contend. Nonetheless, if you wish to avoid loss of house points or detention, you will be required to show respect.”

_I show teachers respect because I want to avoid unnecessary trouble. I don’t need to give adults a reason to be angry at me. But Dumbledore already has it out for me, so why should I bother?_

“Yes, sir.”

The anger was gone now. Harry felt tired. Drained. Empty.

It was safer that way.

_It was safer this way. It was safer in the darkened stall of the men’s lavatory at a public library, armed with nothing but the clothes on his back and a wad of bills in his pocket. It was safer because the custodian hadn’t locked the lavatory door after he’d shut the lights at closing time, while Harry held his breath and could do nothing but keep his feet out of view from the gap between the stall door and the floor. It was safer because he could get out if he wanted to, and he could drink from the sink faucet if he needed to. It was safer because there was a vending machine in the lobby, and he had cash. It was safer because even if someone found him in the morning, the worst they’d probably do was toss him out._

_On his first day on his own, at nine years and eleven months of age, Harry had never felt safer in his life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Harry has too many feelings, and he wants them to stop.


	10. Storm of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fire’s an interesting element_ , Harry mused, his thoughts somewhat fragmented. _Destructive. But could the earth manage without it? Probably not. Fire can destroy, but it can purify things, too. If it doesn’t first destroy them. Some things are beyond cleansing, anyhow. Some things are better off destroyed._

Harry pushed his food around his plate discreetly. It was funny how quickly the novelty of three meals a day had worn off. Just over a month of regular meals, and food was almost routine. He simply had no appetite. He felt restless, and his mind was racing with thoughts he could have done without. Harry forced himself to eat a bit, anyway, so Snape wouldn’t harp on his eating habits yet again.

Thankfully, it seemed Snape was ignoring him, for once, otherwise occupied with a letter he appeared to be in the midst of composing, and he too wasn’t eating much.

_Hypocrite._

Not that Harry minded. He wanted to be left alone; the thoughts whirling around his brain would have undoubtedly made it far too difficult for him to speak.

Snape set down his fork, and Harry mimicked him, relieved.

“Will you be joining me in the laboratory today, Mr. Potter?” asked Snape, scratching out something with his quill.

Harry though for a moment. He would’ve liked to, but the way he was feeling right now, he’d most likely end up exploding something.

_I need to get out of here._

“No thank you, sir. I- I’d rather go outside.”

“As you wish.” Snape nodded to Harry and strode out of the room, flicking his wand behind him to clear away the dishes.

Harry went outside and started walking aimlessly, more in an effort to escape than to reach a destination. But from what he was escaping, he wasn’t sure.

_Why am I… feeling so much? I never did before._

It was true. It had been so easy not to care about anything when he’d lived on the streets; he had been more focused on survival. But now, the confusion he felt about Snape’s civil treatment of him, combined with his fury at Dumbledore, was proving to be difficult to process. There was fear there, too, that Snape would start hating him again, or would leave or throw him out. And that led to more fury at Dumbledore, who was the real reason Harry had cause to fear being taken away in the first place.

It was too much. The anger, the hatred, and the fear that Dumbledore would take Harry away to set the next scene in Harry’s miserable life. And when he thought too hard about the scenes past… all masterfully assembled into a word perfect cabaret, thanks to the tireless efforts of its producer… I give you, Albus Dumbledore! And let’s not forget to mention our star… but wait, he mustn’t be made aware… It is for his own good, after all. For the good of all the wizarding world… 

Harry wanted to scream, but at the same time, he wanted to curl up somewhere and press his hands over his ears until every last thought was drowned out by the sound of his own heartbeat.

Without another pause, he ran as fast as he could around the grounds. He ran, and kept running even when his muscles began to complain bitterly. He continued even when he had no breath left, and he only stopped when his legs gave out entirely. Harry sat where he’d fallen, surrounded by warm grass and fallen leaves, catching his breath. That had helped a bit. He felt drained, his muscles slack, and the flurry of emotion had diminished.

_So, apparently I miscalculated. I thought Dumbledore would take me away when he found that Snape was all right, but he didn’t. So what’s his next move? I can’t really detect a pattern. He left me with the Dursleys, and he must have known about everything that went on there. But if he didn’t want me to have anyone at all so I’d only trust_ him _, why didn’t he prevent me from seeing Jade? Maybe he didn’t know about her? Wait, maybe he caused her to leave… But that doesn’t really fit, considering the circumstances. He can’t be in control of the normal world, too. It didn’t seem that he knew I lived on the streets, from the way he was talking when he found me. So that would imply that he wasn’t keeping such close tabs on me… but that doesn’t fit if he’s trying to control everything. None of this makes sense._

Later, when Harry sat down to dinner, he filled his plate, finding himself hungry for a change. It seemed that his earlier sprint was just catching up with him now. 

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry tensed, and looked up through the strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes.

Snape had an odd expression on his face, and he paused for a moment before speaking. “Might I inquire as to which subjects do you anticipate enjoying upon your start at Hogwarts?”

Harry stared at the man for a moment, taken aback. For lack of a better option, he answered. “I expect I’ll enjoy potions.”

Snape nodded. “Indeed. It seems you possess an aptitude for the subject.” 

_He just gave me an outright compliment. Any moment now, a green pig will fly into the room on golden wings. Wait… are there magical flying pigs?_

“Did you perhaps enjoy chemistry in your previous institute of learning, Mr. Potter?” Snape’s voice jerked Harry out of his musings.

Institute of learning? Harry had to hold back a snort.

“I- I suppose.”

Snape seemed to be studying him carefully, too much so, and it took some effort for Harry not to avert his eyes completely.

“Were you informed of your magical abilities by your previous guardians, or did you simply discover them unaided?”

_Of course. I should have realized. He was just trying to find an opening to question me about them. I can’t lie, though, he’ll know. But anyway, what does it matter if I say the truth? Who cares? He won’t use it against me, I don’t think._

“They never told me.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, flitting his eyes away.

“I think they were afraid of it.”

_Why did I say that?_

Snape’s forehead wrinkled. “It is a common human tendency to fear that which one does not understand, or cannot control.”

At that, Harry looked up at Snape’s face. There was a strange glimmer in his dark eyes. Of _understanding_?

_He knows. He probably had a non-magical parent or something who hated him for his magic._

Harry did not know how he knew that, but judging by the look in Snape’s eyes, he knew it was true.

Snape was staring at him again. “You realize, Mr. Potter,” he said slowly, “that the irrational views of others dictate nothing of your intrinsic value.”

It was all Harry could do not to gape at Snape.

***

Harry was in the library, but he could not have repeated a word of what he’d read.

_The irrational views of others dictate nothing of your intrinsic value…_

Was Snape, in his own, subtle way, trying to tell Harry that he was worth something? Did Snape really think that of Harry, or did he want Harry to believe that of himself? Maybe he was just trying to make Harry _think_ it was true, but then later… no. At this point, Harry truly did not believe that Snape was trying to trick him. Snape had no reason to lie about that sort of thing, anyway. Harry may not have known the man for very long, but he knew him well enough to know that Snape was not the sort of person to spout comforting lies, or to offer false compliments or platitudes.

_But what does it bloody_ matter _if I have value as a person, or if Snape thinks I do, or wants me to believe I do? It doesn’t change anything. How would he even know that I’m worth something? I bet if he really knew me, he wouldn’t think so. He doesn’t know… And anyway, considering that I’m the so-called Boy-Who-Lived, and that Dumbledore’s a control freak, I’ll never be left alone. At least on the streets_ I _was in charge. I’m destined for misery. It’s a fact. Self-worth or whatever makes no difference when nothing else is worth it._

Harry slammed his book shut with unwarranted force and headed to his bedroom. He was feeling nearly as tense as he had outside, before he’d gone for that run. In short, angry motions, Harry undressed and went into the shower, turning the tap to the highest temperature. He stood under the stream of water, feeling it scalding his back and scalp. It hurt, but it was a good kind of pain. It was from an outside source that he could turn off if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. The water felt good, as though its heat was washing away some of his raging emotions, absorbing the heat of his rage into its own.

After a long while, Harry exited the shower and toweled off, the cloth aggravating his reddened, tender skin. He wrapped the towel around his waist, still feeling anxious and on edge, though the fury had left him. He stared into the bathroom mirror, his tired, flushed face staring back at him.

_They say what’s on the outside mirrors what’s inside. Is there something wrong with me on the outside that would explain everything that’s gone wrong? Was everyone justified in doing what they did because I deserved it?_

Harry examined his face carefully; he’d never really taken the time to look at himself properly before. Thick black hair, messy, but otherwise ordinary. Almond-shaped green eyes, the color unusual, but not abnormal. His face appeared drawn and slightly pale, and his eyes were shadowed, but wasn’t that how most people looked when they were tired? His skin wasn’t green, he had ten fingers and toes, and his facial features were all properly positioned.

_If how I look doesn’t say anything, it must be something so deep inside me that’s gone bad that it can’t be seen… Snape said that the views of others don’t define my value. But if that’s the case, then why is it that almost everyone_ _sees something wrong with me? The Dursleys, all the neighbors, the kids in school, the people on the street… But Jade didn’t think I was bad…_

Harry clenched his eyes shut as though the thoughts would fade away with his vision. Jade was gone, so it didn’t matter. That only left Snape. And Snape was a mystery who made no sense at all.

He turned away from the mirror, feeling a pit growing in his stomach, and his hands trembled slightly as he pulled on his pajamas _._ He left the bathroom and climbed into bed, shoving his penknife under his pillow as he curled up beneath his blankets. He attempted to calm himself, to think of and care about nothing, the way he used to, but it just wasn't working. His mind was racing, and he could almost hear the beat of his heart.

_Find your safe place…_

Harry’s thoughts immediately went to Jade. Memories involving her were the only ones that felt safe…

_Harry was in the treehouse, waiting for her. He knew she would be there. Sure enough, he heard the rustling of leaves and a faint scraping sound, and Jade soon entered the treehouse. Her eyes were red, and her face was streaked with tears._

_Jade never cried._

_“You’re crying,” Harry said, feeling a bit out of his depth. Jade rolled her eyes, and Harry was relieved to see that she was still her normal self._

_“You have a black eye,” she said in the same flat tone Harry had used. Harry smiled a bit, as if to say, touché._

_He looked at Jade expectantly, though he knew better than to ask her straight out what was wrong._

_She wiped her face with her sleeve. “I hate him,” she said in a low voice. Harry nodded. He could guess the rest._

_Jade shrugged off her backpack, which she often carried with her, though Harry noticed that it was bulkier than usual._

_“What’s in the bag?” he asked._

_Jade smiled faintly. “Stuff.”_

_She first pulled out a water bottle and a brown paper bag and handed it to Harry. Harry nodded his thanks, gulping down some water. For some time now, Jade had taken to bringing Harry food and drinks, as she knew he was never given much of it. At least her bastard of a stepdad didn’t care what she ate._

_“What else is in the bag?” Harry asked, once he finished wolfing down the food she’d brought him. Jade pulled out some pens and a pad of paper from her backpack, ripping off the topmost sheet, and handing it to Harry. She grabbed a pen and leaned over the pad, penning out an image with such force that she nearly poked a hole through the paper._

_“Draw whoever you hate,” Jade said, without looking up._

_Harry gave her an odd look. “What am I gonna do with it? Frame it and hang it on my wall?”_

_Jade chuckled, pulling a small object from her bag. A lighter._

_Harry stared, a slow smile appearing on his face as he realized what she meant for them to do._

_“Where did you get that?” Harry breathed, slightly awed._

_“Nicked it from Ed’s desk.”_

_She bent her head back over her paper, shoving a pen toward Harry. He poised it over his paper, thought for a moment, then began to draw._ _A short while later, when they were done, Jade grasped the lighter and made as if to set the paper alight._

_“Wait!” Harry called out, a bit frantically. “You’ll set the whole treehouse on fire.”_

_Jade pulled out another water bottle. “We can put it out before it spreads,” she said, as though it were obvious, a slightly manic look in her eyes._

_“Still,” Harry said. “It’s better if we do it outside.”_

_Jade nodded in agreement, her expression clearing a bit. “I should've thought of that. Guess I was a bit too…” she trailed off._

_They climbed down the tree and cleared a small area of the woods from fallen leaves and branches. Carefully, they both set their papers down. Jade pressed her thumb down on the lighter, and a small flame rose out of it. She then held it against the eerily detailed drawing of the face she so hated, watching as the flame slowly began to spread. She then handed the lighter to Harry._

_They both watched with grim satisfaction as the flames consumed the faces of their tormentors._

Harry drifted off into an uneasy sleep. His dreams seemed engulfed in burning reddish flames, images rising in and out of them. Jade. Snape. Dumbledore...

***

Harry awoke abruptly, a bit after six. His dreams, while unlike his usual nightmares, had unnerved him. The flames had seemed so real that he felt hot thinking about them. Harry then realized he was sweating rather profusely.

_Odd. It’s like the fire_ _was real…_

Harry took a cold shower, and the irony of his actions wasn’t lost on him. A scalding shower last night to absorb the raging heat he’d felt inside, and now a cold shower to wash away the heat on the outside…

_Fire’s an interesting element,_ Harry mused, his thoughts somewhat fragmented. _Destructive. But could the earth manage without it? Probably not. Fire can destroy, but it can purify things, too. If it doesn’t first destroy them. Some things are beyond cleansing, anyhow. Some things are better off destroyed._

Dry and dressed, Harry made his way downstairs. It was too early for breakfast, so he went to the library. He didn’t feel like eating, anyway. He settled in his favorite armchair, not even bothering to open a book. He stared at the wall. He felt a bit… vacant. Exhausted. As though he’d been running miles and miles and just couldn’t go on anymore. There was a faint ache in his chest, and Harry felt hard-pressed to even twitch a finger.

_Get a hold of yourself. Pull it together. You have to be prepared, don’t sit here like a useless lump._

But for all his self-admonitions, Harry just couldn’t bring himself to care. After a while of staring, Harry rose and walked toward the tall windows of the library, almost unaware of what he was doing. He then realized what had drawn him to it.

_It’s raining._

It was storming, actually, and Harry could hear occasional rolls of thunder booming in the distance. The sound of raindrops hitting the ground felt soothing. Almost transfixed, Harry left the library and walked through the front door. He felt large droplets land heavily on his head, his shoulders, his face as he stood in place for a while, his body soon becoming entirely soaked.

_The rain is putting out the fire… But is it too late? Has it already been destroyed?_

Harry walked toward his tree and sat beneath it, his arms wrapped around his knees. The leaves of the tree somewhat muted the steady assault of water.

_Water. It’s the opposite of fire. But the same, in some ways. It can burn, too. And destroy. And purify. But not me…_

Harry felt raindrops streaming down his face, almost like tears. But they weren’t tears. Harry couldn’t cry, he hadn’t done so in years, not since the day he’d realized the extent of its futility. He sat under the tree a while longer, until he heard rustling. He looked up. Snape was walking towards him, his billowing cloak growing steadily damper.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry relaxed slightly. Snape didn’t sound particularly angry.

“Come.”

Harry considered it for a moment, then rose. Snape, almost hesitantly, laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder to lead him toward the house. Harry shrunk away from the touch. It wasn’t that he was afraid, exactly; he’d known for some time now that Snape’s touch wasn’t dangerous. If anything, it made Harry feel warm inside, as though he was being ensconced in a thick blanket. But Harry could not accept that sort of comfort. Not now.

When they walked through the front door, Snape waved his wand around himself, drying his robes.

“You as well?”

Harry shrugged.

For once, Snape didn’t request a verbal answer. He waved his wand around Harry, whose clothes felt abruptly dry and warm. It made his throat ache. Harry swallowed, trying to rid himself of the sensation. It didn’t help.

“Breakfast, Mr. Potter.” Snape swept toward the kitchen, and Harry followed him. They both sat down to eat, and silence ensued for the next few moments.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said suddenly. “Do you enjoy a thorough soaking while fully clothed?”

Harry stiffened. “I like rain,” he responded defensively.

Snape nodded, his eyes on Harry. “Have you been made aware of the potential hazard of positioning oneself beneath a tree in the midst of a thunderstorm?”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

_Seriously?_

“Is that really likely?”

Snape pressed his palms down on the table. “It is unwise to place oneself in a position where they may come to harm, regardless of the likelihood of a dangerous event occurring.”

_That depends…_

Harry, however, said what he figured Snape wanted to hear.

“I’ll exercise caution during future thunderstorms, sir.”

Snape inclined his head, his lips twitching ever so slightly. “Join me in the laboratory after lunch.”

***

While stirring his potion, a Swelling Solution, this time, Harry stared into the thick, yet oddly translucent substance. He could see his reflection staring back at him, looking as blank and tired as he felt.

_Stir six times clockwise…_

Harry watched his reflection distorting as he stirred. It seemed eerie, now, but he couldn’t tear away his gaze.

_Allow potion to simmer on a low flame for four minutes…_

While he waited, a realization slowly began to dawn on him, while Dumbledore’s face drifted across his consciousness.

Slowly, steadily, as though a magnetic force compelled his movements, Harry reached a hand into his pocket to finger a small, metal object. He could almost see the glint of his sharp, ever-faithful penknife. A sudden sense of calm washed over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Harry is acting strangely, and Snape is utterly out of his depth


	11. A Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I wonder what it would be like_ , Harry thought idly, leaning back into his armchair, _if I didn’t have to deal with any of this anymore._
> 
> What would it be like not to feel anything, not to worry about anything, not to care? An existence without pain or fear, simply cool blankness.
> 
> What about the opposite? Like happiness or pleasure?
> 
> But that was out of reach for him, he just knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: as you may have predicted, this chapter contains suicide themes. Please proceed with caution.

_Abnormal… Worthless… Useless…_

No… no…

_...knock your bloody teeth out… I’ll have none of your freakishness in my home… Needs to stay locked in like a rabid animal…_

No… Stop…

_That little girl? What was ‘er name, some sorta color? Oh, she left ‘ere a few days back, or, weeks, was it? Went to live with ‘er mum…_

Please…

_You think you have anywhere to run, boy? Think you’d be out here alone if there was anyone who cared to look for you?_

“Mr. Potter!”

“Stop…”

_A hand is shaking his shoulder…_

“Stop… Get off… No!”

Harry jerked awake, gasping for air, to see Snape hovering over him. Harry’s breathing slowed a bit, but he turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down hard enough on his lip to taste blood.

_Weak, pitiful... Why does he have to see me like this?_

Harry’s eyes shot open again when Snape’s hand settled on his shoulder, and he very nearly flinched away before his body managed to remember that it wasn’t under attack. He lay there silently, then stiffened in surprise when Snape reached out with his other hand, slowly, to prise Harry’s lower lip from between his teeth. He allowed it, a bit bemusedly, feeling oddly calmed by the gesture.

“Did you attempt to clear your mind before bed?” Snape’s tone wasn’t accusing.

Harry shuddered, closing his eyes. “Didn’t help.”

_I’m so pathetic._

“That is not an uncommon occurrence.”

Harry looked up again. Snape was standing in the same position, his hand still resting on Harry’s shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face. “Would you perhaps like some assistance?”

_No. I should be able to do it myself. Makes me weak if I need help. I_ am _weak. Pathetic. Useless. Vernon was right about that._

“Mr. Potter?”

“N-no, no thank you, sir.”

Snape, for a moment, looked as though he wanted to object. He just sighed, however, and stepped back. “Very well. Do not hesitate to seek out my assistance, should you need it.”

Harry nodded, and Snape, after another long, contemplative look, turned and swept from the room. Harry felt an odd sense of loss as he watched Snape go. He shoved his hand under his pillow to clench a fist around the handle of his penknife. His hand trembled.

***

_I wonder what it would be like,_ Harry thought idly, leaning back into his armchair, _if I didn’t have to deal with any of this anymore._

What _would_ it be like not to feel anything, not to worry about anything, not to care? An existence without pain or fear, simply cool blankness.

_What about the opposite? Like happiness or pleasure?_

But that was out of reach for him, he just knew.

_I never asked to be born. I never asked for any of this. Yet people seem to think that they can do whatever they want with me, like I’m their personal property. It’s never going to end. If it’s not the Dursleys, it’s Dumbledore. And even if I got away from him, someone else would just take over. If they won’t go away, I’ll have to._

Harry glanced up absently, his eyes flitting towards the clock on the wall, and he noticed that it was already five minutes past lunchtime. He didn’t care.

_I’m not hungry, and no one can make me eat. No one. I can do whatever I please._

Harry hunched back further into his seat, trying to focus on the book he’d had resting on his lap for the past hour and a half.

_Nonverbal spells require not only an advanced level of magical power and prowess, but a strong focus and understanding of the workings of the spell being cast is vital for success as well. It is for that reason that nonverbal spells are generally not attempted until the start of NEWT level-_

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry purposefully kept his head down, his eyes trained on the next passage.

_-NEWT level studies. It has been found that those who are practiced in mind magics, or, as discovered in a recent study published in the Middle East Journal of Magical Arts and Sciences (Brailovsky & Mizrahi, 1988), learned in the musical arts- _

“You will look at me when I speak to you, Potter,” Snape said sharply.

Harry stiffened, then looked up reluctantly. “Yes, sir?” he asked in a flat tone.

Snape looked as though he was searching himself for the last vestiges of patience he possessed. “It is nearly ten minutes past lunchtime. I am quite certain you are aware.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Snape’s face tightened. “Nonetheless, you will eat. Come.”

“I’d rather not, sir,” Harry replied, eyes on Snape’s left shoulder. He started slightly when he saw the shoulder tighten, and he looked towards Snape’s face.

“Have I given you the impression that that was a request?” he asked, in a slightly dangerous tone.

_Why can’t he just let me be?_

“You told me once, sir,” Harry said through gritted teeth, “that you don’t care whether or not I attend meals.”

Snape looked exceedingly frustrated, his breaths coming out in short, deliberate bursts. “I have indeed told you that. However, I have also stated that I regret my initial negligence and intend to rectify it.”

“I don’t feel like eating. You can’t force me.”

“I believe you will find that I can.”

“Do you plan to shove food down my-"

“Watch yourself, Potter. You are treading on thin ice.”

Harry knew that he was crossing a line, and every ounce of reason he possessed was screaming at him to shut the _hell_ up, but he didn’t care. He was far too angry. How dare these people abandon him for years, only to show up and try to control him as soon as it was convenient for them?

Harry pressed his lips together, glaring at Snape, refusing to move from his chair.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, in a voice that was very nearly a hiss. “Should you continue to disobey me, you will find that it is well within my capabilities to bar you from the library.”

Harry was almost shaking with a fury that was entirely disproportionate to the situation. Snape had every right to refuse him access to the library; he owned it, after all. But the logical side of his brain was growing fainter, and his anger was rising so rapidly that he felt his fingers tingling with magic. With difficulty, Harry managed to reign in his anger just enough to refrain from destroying the library a second time. He looked up slowly to meet Snape’s gaze, the man’s face tight with irritation.

“Have we reached an understanding, Mr. Potter?”

_Condescending git._

Harry rose without looking at Snape, angry and humiliated, and followed the man out of the room in silence. Before they reached the kitchen, Snape paused, turning to face Harry.

He tensed, holding his breath.

“In the future, I will not be quite so tolerant of your rudeness. You would do well to keep that in mind, or you just may find yourself spending the afternoon scrubbing cauldrons,” Snape said tersely.

Harry nodded shortly, beginning to feel a bit idiotic. He had gotten into an argument because Snape _wanted_ him to eat? Considering that he’d spent most of his life scrounging for food, his behavior had been downright irrational.

He sat in his usual place, piling whatever food was nearest on his plate, looking everywhere but at Snape.

_I’m being ungrateful. He’s giving me food and everything, and I just… He should throw me out._

At that thought, Harry felt a bit panicky. He’d end up entirely under the control of Dumbledore if that happened. 

_I have to apologize._

Harry looked up hesitantly. “Sir?” he asked in a tentative whisper.

“Yes?” Snape asked in a neutral, if short, tone.

_He doesn’t sound too angry… Or maybe he is and is just pretending not to be…_

“I… er- I’m…” Harry’s voice trailed off, and he bit his lip and turned his head.

_I’m sorry for being a rude, ungrateful little-_

“Is there something you wish to say?” Snape asked impatiently.

Harry meant to say sorry, but what came out of his mouth, in an almost inaudible tone, was, “please don’t send me away.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “Pardon? I didn't quite catch that.”

_God, I sound pathetic._

“I- I’m sorry for… please don’t kick me out,” Harry said, only slightly more loudly, hating how his voice was shaking.

Snape exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He opened them to look at Harry, who was looking back at him with what he knew was poorly concealed trepidation.

“You will not be sent away, Mr. Potter. You will remain here for as long as necessary. However, should you continue to refuse to communicate-”

Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. So that was the way it was. He was welcome here only if he complied with the rules. If not, he was out. And he didn’t even know all the rules. Classic. He’d end up breaking them beyond repair at some point, and then he’d be at the mercy of Dumbledore.

He did not want to hear any more. He let his fork drop onto his plate and dashed out of the room and out of the house as quickly as he could.

Had Harry only remained for a few moments longer, he would have heard the rest of Snape’s statement: “-your time here will be less than enjoyable for both of us.” And perhaps, had Harry not run away, he would have felt Snape’s hand brush his shoulder lightly, telling him that his presence in his home was more than welcome, even if he did insist on defying rules put in place for his own benefit.

But he heard none of it.

Harry scampered up his tree, feeling both guilty and betrayed. Snape didn’t want him. But it was his own fault for not being good enough. He was never good enough. Not for anyone.

_I was for Jade… I hate her! I hate her for leaving. She never even said goodbye. So maybe she didn’t care after all._

Harry’s hand reached into his pocket of its own accord and pulled out his penknife. He stared into the blade, his reflection staring back at him, distorted by the shape of the knife. He moved it away quickly, into the path of a ray of sunlight. The blade glinted oddly.

_Why is it sunny? I want rain… Rain makes everything go away… But so can this._

Harry felt the familiar calmness wash over him as he ran a finger carefully across the sharp edge of the blade.

_No one would care if I did it. Snape wouldn’t care, and it would serve Dumbledore right. And the wizarding world would have to find a shiny new Boy-Who-Lived. Maybe next time they’ll pick one who isn’t damaged goods… Stupid Jade. She didn’t need me, so I don’t need her. It wouldn’t matter to her, either._

Harry scraped the blade across a tree branch, carving in his initials in several rough motions. H.J.P.

There. He’d left his mark on the one safe place nature offered. A tree. The trees would remember him, even if he was gone. Perhaps the trees would miss him when no humans would.

Harry thought he heard the front door of the house open, although, the tree being a considerable distance from it, he couldn’t be sure. He looked toward the house, and saw Snape standing at the entrance. Harry could not make out his expression, but he looked back blankly, surreptitiously sliding the penknife into his pocket.

After a few moments, Snape turned and re-entered the house. Harry thought he would’ve felt relieved, but he didn’t. He just felt a brief flash of an unidentifiable, but painful emotion, and then… nothing.

***

Harry floated through the rest of the day like a ghost. He showed up for dinner, dutifully clearing his plate, all the while refusing to look at Snape. He sat in the library, staring at the same spot on the page, but for how long, he didn’t know.

He lay in bed, flashes of terror and fury engulfing his senses, so much so that he scarcely slept. Even if he had been able to sleep, he knew it would not offer him any respite. All Harry had was his penknife, which, to him, was the one thing that kept him grounded in reality, reminding him that there _was_ a way out. Otherwise, he didn’t know where he would be.

***

Harry awoke the next morning scarcely an hour after he’d finally drifted off. His eyes were gritty, and he felt sluggish and disoriented. A quick shower woke him up some, but he still felt exhausted.

_Better than the nightmares,_ Harry thought darkly, rubbing at his eyes. _But I shouldn’t be so tired; it isn’t the first time I couldn’t get to sleep._

When Harry further examined the situation, he realized that the cause of his exhaustion wasn’t solely sleep deprivation.

_I’m just tired of… everything._

Harry dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, stumbling a bit on the way. He sat down, barely noticing what he was serving himself, and, once again, avoiding Snape’s gaze. He lifted his fork, which felt abnormally heavy, and the food on his plate appeared distinctly unappetizing.

“Did you not sleep well last night, Mr. Potter?” Harry heard Snape ask.

He shrugged listlessly, picking at his food.

“Did you experience nightmares?”

Harry looked up at that. Why did Snape keep having to ask him questions like that? What was he, a five year old who woke up crying every night? And why did Snape even have to know about them at all?

“No. Stop asking me questions,” Harry bit out through gritted teeth. No one had the right to know anything. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone? He wanted to kick something. Hard.

_What’s to stop me? I have nothing to lose, anyway._

Harry rammed his foot into the table leg, causing it to shake violently, and he watched with satisfaction as a glass of water crashed to the floor and shattered, its contents splattering everywhere. In another wave of recklessness, he swung out an arm and knocked his plate to the floor, and shards of china and bits of foot joined the mess on the floor.

The satisfied feeling left him quite abruptly when he heard a distinct clearing of a throat.

“Mr. Potter,” Harry looked up slowly at the icy tone, his insides all but curdling with dread. Snape looked unmistakably angry, his eyes narrowed to slits and his knuckles white with how tightly they were clenching the edge of the table. “Can you provide for me any sort of explanation for your actions?” 

Harry looked down, shaking his head slightly. He had no explanation; he didn’t have the faintest clue as to why he’d just done what he did.

Harry heard Snape take several deep, controlled breaths. “Look at me.”

He looked up, blanking his face. He didn’t care what happened next. He didn’t.

“I understand,” Snape said in a tone of deliberate calm, “that your judgment at present may be clouded as a result of a sleepless night. However, that does not give you leave to behave as a young child in the midst of a temper tantrum.”

_I don’t care what he says. I don’t care about anything. I don’t care. I don’t care._

“Have you anything to say?”

Harry shook his head faintly, struggling to refrain from looking away. Oddly, Snape didn’t look quite so angry anymore. The man’s hands were no longer clenching the table, and his eyes were narrowed, no longer with fury, but with something else that Harry couldn't read. Snape man rose from his seat, clearing the table and the mess on the floor with a quick wave of his wand.

“Follow me.”

It did not cross Harry’s mind to disobey, yet his feet felt as though they were made of lead as followed Snape out of the kitchen, and he couldn’t quite draw a full breath. He’d finally done it this time. He’d crossed the line, he’d pushed too far, and now he’d finally get what was coming to him, and he had no one to blame but himself.

He’d forgotten what this was like. In a way, a year on his own had softened him. Sure, he’d been on the wrong end of a fist and a knife, and he’d spent nights unable to bring himself to close his eyes for fear of that man who kept _looking_ at him with this weird sort of glint in his eyes, and he’d been cold and wet and injured more times than he could count, but he’d still been free. He’d been free of the utter helplessness and dread that accompanied the knowledge that he’d angered the person who had full control over every aspect of his life, and that there was no way to escape the consequences for his real or perceived misdeeds.

Harry followed Snape into a room had never been in before; he’d only stood outside it while eavesdropping on Dumbledore and Snape the day he’d first arrived. It turned out to be a small study, with a wide desk piled with books and parchment, a couple of wooden chairs, and several ever-present bookshelves.

“Mr. Potter.” Harry slowly lifted his head, pressing his lips together and clenching his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

“Stand in that corner of the room.” Snape pointed, “and remain there until further notice. I will be at my desk.”

_Er… Sorry? Did he just send me to a corner_ ? _What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?_

“I’m- I- I don’t know what you mean,” Harry finally replied, feeling at a complete loss.

Snape raised his eyebrows. “I believe my instructions were quite clear. You are clearly incapable of behaving in a manner befitting your age at present, so you will spend some time in the corner, contemplating your actions.”

Snape stood, there, waiting, while Harry walked slowly to the corner he’d been directed to, leaning against the wall when he reached it.

_What’s the point of this? What is he trying to say, or do, or whatever…?_

“Turn around, Mr. Potter.”

Harry gave Snape a confused look. Snape looked irritated. “Face the wall, and contemplate your behavior.”

Harry remained where he was, frozen in place.

“Do as I say.”

Harry felt uncontrollable terror begin to take hold of him. Turn around? He couldn’t. He’d be facing away from the door, and he wouldn’t be able to see… He wouldn’t know if...

_No. Nononono. I’m not turning around. He can’t make me, I need to see. I won’t. I can’t._

“Mr. Potter. Turn. Now” Snape definitely sounded angry now, and he looked it, too.

Harry couldn't breath. He couldn't even move, though his eyes darted back and forth in search for escape routes that he wouldn't be able to take.

_No. Don’t make me._

Harry gasped and pressed back into the wall as Snape started moving toward him. In that moment, Snape’s figure began to grow hazy, and Harry wasn’t quite sure where he was. All he knew was that there was an imposing figure moving toward him and he couldn’t escape. But then, the figure abruptly stopped moving and began to back away.

Harry took that opportunity to move. He dashed out of the room at lightning speed, running up the stairs to his bedroom.

_Need to hide. Need to hide where no one can get me._

The door of his room slammed with the force of Harry's tangible fear as he dashed through it. He grabbed his blanket and curled up with it under his bed, penknife clutched to his chest. As he lay there, his breathing gradually steadied.

_Snape wouldn’t’ve done anything, why did I freak out like a lunatic?_

_How the hell do you know he wouldn’t do anything?_

_He just wouldn’t._

_But Dumbledore can get in, and I couldn’t see the door…_

Harry shuddered, curling up into a tighter ball. Snape definitely wouldn’t want him to stay, now. Harry had been rude and disrespectful twice today, and then he’d freaked out and run away, just because Snape had sent him to a corner. Even a two-year-old would have been capable of doing that.

_I’m not afraid. I don’t need to hide here like a hunted animal._

Harry crawled out from under the bed and climbed into it, feeling exhausted despite having awoken so recently.

***

As Harry lay in the midst of a deep, yet fitful sleep, Severus stood beside his bed, watching.

“What am I to do with you?” he said in a low tone. “You will not communicate your needs; I doubt you even know what they are.”

Severus reached out and brushed his fingers lightly through the child’s hair, careful not to wake him.

“I cannot discipline you, nor can I even raise my voice without you believing that I might harm you.”

Harry moaned in his sleep slightly, his forehead crinkling in agitation.

“I cannot help you if you will not let me,” Severus murmured. “As it is, I fear that I am only worsening a difficult situation.”

With a heavy sigh, Severus turned and left the room.

***

The next few days melded into one another, time passing painfully slowly, yet far too rapidly. It felt as though Harry was moving through a thick, gray fog, unable to differentiate between what was really happening and what was running through his mind.

Sometimes, Harry felt nothing at all, and he moved through his daily routines automatically, yet he experienced none of it.

At other times, fury and fear overtook him, leaving him wanting nothing more than to hurt those who had hurt him. He could only imagine, though.

There were times, too, when Harry felt an undefinable, yet unbearable pain engulf him, a pain that had no cure nor treatment. It was inside him, yet it surrounded him as well, leaving him defenseless and hopeless.

Sleep offered no escape. Images of the past combined with fears of his future haunted his dreams whenever he did manage to sleep.

His penknife, secured in his pocket, day and night, was what kept him going. It was the way out, the only way. It reminded him that he wasn’t truly trapped, and he could escape if he really needed to.

It was the only thing that felt real.

***

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry didn’t answer; he hadn’t even registered the question. He was somewhere else, far away.

“Mr. Potter.” The sharper tone alerted Harry of the speaker’s presence.

“Yes, sir?”

“You do not look well.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are most certainly not.”

“I am.”

“Cease with the fabrications.”

“I’m not lying.”

_I’m not! I’m completely fine. I’ve never been more fine. Absolutely, perfectly, one-hundred perfect fine. Fine. Fine. FINE!_

He bolted, ignoring Snape’s voice calling after him.

***

Harry lay rigid in his bed, nearly paralyzed with fear. He had not been dreaming; he could not even match the emotion with an image or a memory. He just felt fear. He _was_ fear. And pain, and anguish, and fury.

Harry rose slowly and walked, as though in a daze, toward the bathroom, his fist clenched around a small object in his pocket.

He entered the bathroom, suddenly imbued with a sense of purpose. He pulled his penknife out of his pocket and carefully laid it on the counter beside the sink. He then lifted the gray bath rug off the floor and hung it over the towel rack, taking care to smooth out any creases.

He sat on the closed toilet lid, and slowly reached for the penknife, flicking it open and grasping it firmly in his right hand.

He dragged the knife through the air, toward the waiting, willing target in the form of a narrow vein in his left wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the aftermath, and a turning point.


	12. The Right Words

Severus awoke quite suddenly, feeling a vague sense of foreboding. Long-trained reflexes had him immediately out of bed, wand in hand. It was then when he noticed a faint ringing in his ears. A ringing only he could detect, because it was a charm of his own making to monitor the boy’s well-being and alarm him if necessary.

But the charm was acting oddly. It would not have woken him on its own as it should have; he doubted he would have woken at all if not for the distinct sense of unease he was experiencing. 

Severus did not pause to contemplate the matter. He swept rapidly towards the boy’s bedroom, prepared for the worst. 

The boy was not in his bed. His gaze traveled rapidly across the room, and he noticed a thin line of light protruding from the narrow gap between the floor and the bathroom door. He didn’t bother to knock; he twisted the doorknob, finding it unlocked, and swung open the door.

The first thing he noticed was the bare bathroom floor tiles, spotted with droplets of a dark, wet substance. The rug had been hung, ever so carefully, over the towel rack. At the same time, a faint, metallic scent, only obvious to him due to his spying experience, engulfed his senses.

It was then, within a second of his entrance into the room, that he took in the entire scene.

The boy was seated on the closed toilet lid, his head tilted downward, eyes gazing unseeingly, face deathly pale. A small blade hung limply from the boy’s right fist, and his left hand, palm face-up, was resting on his thigh. And there was blood.

With a jolt of horror, Severus understood what had happened.

_Do not make any sudden movements._

“Mr. Potter, drop the knife,” he said, keeping his voice low and smooth.

The boy did not look up, but he let it fall to the floor with a faint clatter.

“Thank you. Stretch out your arm.”

The child looked up then, his gaze no longer blank. He looked tortured, now, his eyes awash with a greater agony than Severus had thought possible for a child as young as he.

“Can’t you leave me here?” the boy asked. His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper.

_Dear Merlin. Put the right words in my mouth._

“No. You can stretch out your arm for me willingly, or I will do it for you.”

Severus paused, standing carefully still as the boy slowly stretched out his left arm, displaying the deep, bleeding gash across his wrist.

Without wasting a moment, Severus waved his wand in several intricate motions, cleaning the wound and knitting it carefully, while surreptitiously performing a quick scan to detect any other injuries. Once confident that the wound was properly healed, and that the child was free of further injury, Severus reached out slowly to tuck his fingers beneath the boy’s chin to lift his head. The boy didn’t resist; the glassy quality of his eyes suggested that he wasn’t fully processing any of the events occurring at present, and when Severus met his gaze, the normally vibrant, intelligent green eyes seemed dulled and vacant. He appeared even smaller than usual, as though the life force that had held him upright had abandoned him. Or perhaps, the child had abandoned it.

Severus forced himself to focus on the most immediate concern. The boy did not appear to have lost a great deal of blood, but the bleeding hadn’t ebbed, and the child looked moments away from collapse. He shifted his grip from the boy’s wrist to his upper arm in preparation to lead him out of the room.

“You require several potions. Come.”

Without pausing for a response, Severus gently tugged on the child’s arm, pulling him to stand. But when the boy rose, his knees buckled, and his eyes rolled backwards into a faint. Severus cursed, catching the boy before he hit the ground and scooping him up. 

He walked down two flights of stairs to his laboratory, refusing to allow himself to think too hard. He could worry later. He could admonish himself for his neglect of the boy’s needs later. Right now, he needed to focus his undivided attention on an ill, injured child.

Shifting the boy carefully in his arms, Severus entered the small room adjoining his lab and conjured a cot, then set the boy down on it gingerly. After determining that the boy’s vital signs were stable, Severus took several deep breaths.

_Blood replenisher, iron supplement draught, nerve regenerator, if necessary._

Within moments, Severus was by the boy’s side, potions in hand. He then loosened the unconscious child’s jaws, pouring potions into his open mouth, and stroking the throat to prompt the child’s swallow reflex. Once the potions were administered, Severus leaned against the wall outside the small room, refusing to allow himself to sit. How could he have missed this? 

_I didn’t think to look through his belongings. I didn’t know he_ had _any belongings of his own. But that is no excuse; a child under my care was in possession of such a lethal object, and I overlooked it entirely. And why did the monitoring spells fail to work efficiently…? Of course, because they were not meant to detect harm the boy deliberately inflicted upon himself. It failed to occur to me to keep that in mind when I set the monitors. The sole reason I detected anything at all was because the child would have died had I waited too long._

He had failed. He had utterly, irrevocably failed to do the one job that he’d been entrusted with, the one task he’d sworn to undertake, not only to atone for past mistakes, but because he’d _wanted_ to. He’d wanted to fix what had nearly broken this young boy in his care, this child that had surprised him at every turn and provoked emotions that he’d long thought buried too deeply to retrieve.

Simply put, he’d come to care for the child. He wanted this child to trust him and feel safe in his presence, though Merlin only knew how he could begin to build that trust when Severus had never given his own to anyone else. He could not undo it, this need that had grown so rapidly in him to give whatever he had to this boy, despite whatever pain would come his way upon allowing the boy to breach his own defenses. The sheer _horror_ he’d experienced when he’d realized what the child had felt compelled to do…

Harry was no longer just a boy Severus had grudgingly taken in. He was his responsibility, _his_ ward, and he would not shirk his duties. He was in far too deep, now, and there was no going back. Nor did he want to.

***

Harry opened his eyes and immediately closed them tightly against the light. His fists clenched around what felt like cotton, and the sensation of it had him opening his eyes again, his heart thudding frantically as he glanced around rapidly, unsure of where he was and how he’d gotten there. His eyes caught on a dark figure in his periphery, and he could not contain the panicked gasp that escaped his lungs. He’d taken to sleeping in the grassy, partially concealed area near the homeless shelter, because he couldn’t bring himself to actually sleep inside it for fear of someone sending him back to the Dursleys, but that strange man who slept nearby kept looking at him with that odd glint in his eye, and he never bothered to look away when Harry noticed him staring. Had that man taken him somewhere? What did he want? Would he-

Harry cringed back and wrapped his arms around his chest when the dark figure approached him. He sat up abruptly, then froze when a hand settled on his shoulder, blinking several times until the figure came into full focus.

Snape.

Recent events made their way steadily back into Harry’s awareness. He glanced around the room slowly and found that he was lying on a cot in the room that adjoined Snape’s potions lab. 

“Lie back.”

Harry jumped at the sound of Snape’s voice, his shoulders momentarily hunching against his ears before he let them drop, and he allowed Snape to push him backwards against the pillow.

“Do not sit up, I will raise the back of the cot.”

Snape flicked his wand, and Harry felt the upper half of his cot push upward so he was propped up into a half-lying, half-sitting position. Snape then proffered a glass bottle seemingly out of nowhere filled with a watery, dark brown substance and handed it over.

“Blood replenisher. I gave some to you earlier, but you require a second dose.”

Harry obediently swallowed the potion, grimacing at its metallic taste. Once Harry had drained the bottle, Snape handed him a glass of water, which Harry gulped down gratefully. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been. 

Snape handed him another potion, pale yellow, this time. “For weakness and vertigo.”

Harry swallowed the unpleasantly slimy, but thankfully tasteless brew, and a dizziness and weakness he hadn’t even noticed he was experiencing ebbed away, leaving him feeling clear-headed and energized.

_No, I don’t want to feel like this. I was almost there. And then he had to show up._

But did he really not want it? Snape’s ministrations, and his matter-of-fact approach in dealing with the situation that Harry had created and the inconvenience he’d caused made Harry feel something different. Something other than the unrelenting fury and dread that had been consuming him for ages.

_He must really not want me to die... Get a grip, he’d be in trouble if I died on his watch. That’s why he’s doing this._

That thought made Harry feel calmer, somehow. The lack of conflict was easier to cope with. Snape wordlessly handed him another glass of water, watching as Harry drained it slowly. 

After a few moments of silence, Snape cleared his throat. “I trust you are now feeling well enough to walk?”

Harry nodded, his eyes on his fingernails, as he rose carefully out of the cot into a standing position. He did feel okay. Physically, at least.

_I don’t want to feel okay. I don’t want to feel anything._

“You will join me in the sitting room, and we will discuss this,” Snape said in a tone Harry couldn’t decipher.

He allowed Snape to lead him out of the lab and up the stairs to the sitting room, where he was guided to sit on the couch, and Snape, instead of sitting across from him, sat down directly beside him. Harry hunched his shoulders, but that did not prevent Snape from gripping them firmly, turning Harry to face him.

“Look at me.”

Harry swallowed, staring resolutely at his lap, unable to lift his head even if he’d wanted to look away from the familiar, predictable wood of the floor towards whatever expression Snape had on his face.

“Harry.”

The use of his first name startled Harry enough to jerk him out of his frozen sort of trance, and he looked up to meet Snape’s eyes.

“Can you explain?” It wasn’t a demand. Harry could see on the man’s face and hear in his voice that it was no more than a question that he desired the answer to.

Could Harry explain?

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t speak. He was, just as the first time he’d met the man, trapped in Snape’s dark, magnetic gaze, but it was different this time. There was anger there, perhaps, if Harry looked hard enough, but there was also concern. Warmth. And… something else.

No adult had ever looked at him that way. Ever. He’d only ever seen scorn, fury, hatred, and disgust in the eyes of all those who’d been meant to care for him. Snape’s gaze was new. Singular. And Harry couldn’t bear it.

He felt a pressure behind his eyes, and a stinging in their corners.

_No. no crying-_

But Harry couldn’t stop it. Years of pent up pain, fear, and anguish burst forth from him in a torrent of tears. Harry pulled himself out of Snape’s grip, hiding his face in his hands, elbows digging into his thighs. His entire body shook with the force of his sobs, and with the effort it took to keep them quiet.

After a moment, Harry felt something. An arm was reaching carefully across his shoulder blades, coming to rest on the outside of his upper arm, pulling him close. Harry fought it for a moment, but then gave in, collapsing against Snape’s side.

They both remained in that position for an undetermined length of time, with Snape’s arm holding Harry firmly against his side, while Harry sobbed near-silently, his face still hidden in his tear-soaked hands.

Snape did not speak, for which Harry was grateful. He did not tell Harry to stop crying. He didn’t scorn him for it, nor did he attempt to end the tears by means of comforting words. He just sat with Harry, holding him, allowing him to let out his tears.

Eventually, Harry’s tears ebbed, and he pulled against Snape’s grip. The man released him, giving Harry a few moments to collect himself. Harry wiped his face with his sleeve, too drained to feel embarrassed, as much as he knew he should. Though exhausted, Harry felt as though he’d been relieved of a weight he’d been carrying for years. Had it been the tears, or the subsequent comfort that had relieved him of it? 

Harry looked up when he felt hands on his shoulders. He met Snape’s gaze unflinchingly.

“Why, Harry?” Snape’s voice was low, almost a whisper, and his eyes did not leave Harry’s, they did not even blink, as though the answer to his question was all that mattered.

 _I have to answer, I owe him that much._

Why _had_ he done it, and what had driven him to do it now, while his life had been better these past few weeks than it had ever been before?

The answer came to him.

“I was t-trying-” Harry’s voice emerged as a rasp. He cleared his throat, which felt as though it was coated in sawdust.

“I was trying too hard to s-survive to realize that I- I-”

_That I didn’t want to._

Harry bit his lip and tried to look away, but Snape grasped his chin, holding his head in place. Harry looked carefully at the man, whose face was lined with tension, and his eyes seemed shadowed with something more than the current predicament. Something old.

“I know, Harry,” Snape said in a low voice, his eyes fully fixed upon Harry’s. “I know that the pain can become so great that you cease to feel anything at all. It chokes you, it binds you, until you lose yourself entirely to its clutches. Until the pain is all you know, and you cannot separate yourself from it.”

Harry inhaled sharply at those words. He stared at Snape, and that was when he knew. Snape _did_ know. Snape understood what he’d felt, and what had driven him to such desperate actions. Snape wasn’t angry, he _understood._ Because he’d been there, too.

“You- you _do_ know,” Harry whispered.

Snape nodded once, slowly, reaching out a hand to grasp Harry’s. 

“As much as it feels as though you are, you are not alone,” said Snape, his gaze fixed, focused, and his voice projecting utter conviction.

_I should be. I don’t need anyone. I can’t depend on anyone. I should be able to be alone._

Snape seemed to know where Harry’s thoughts were going.

“You cannot be strong all the time, Harry. Nor should you have to be. You _can_ let others in. Allow them to hold you up when you can do so no longer.”

Harry stared at the man, not blinking even when his eyes started to burn. The words Snape had spoken sounded almost like another language, words too foreign for him to translate into one he understood. But the man’s voice required no interpretation. It spoke of so many things Harry did not need to translate. It spoke of certainty, of understanding, and of hard-earned knowledge that might never be shared in words but conveyed in every way besides. It was a voice that Harry could not disbelieve.

“Harry.”

Harry looked up at Snape’s voice, straight into his eyes. Snape’s hands were on his shoulders again. They felt warm.

“Will you let me, Harry? Will you let me be that person?”

Harry did not look away from Snape’s eyes. Eyes that could hold secrets, carry burdens that no one else could. They were eyes that would not fail him.

Slowly, his gaze never leaving Snape’s, Harry nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: sometimes, all you need to do is fly


	13. Just for Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only the simple-minded and ignorant would dare judge another for their methods of coping with pain.

Snape’s hand was warm on Harry’s shoulder as he led him upstairs. Harry didn’t try to shake it off; he didn’t want to. In truth, he felt as if that hand was the one anchor holding him upright.

_He’s right, I really can’t do it myself. How pathetic can I get? Now he thinks I’m some mental case that needs counseling,_ and _I just cried all over him like a baby-_

“Harry.” Snape’s deep voice cut into Harry’s internal tirade. Harry looked up to see Snape’s face, laced with what he’d come to understand was concern. Snape never really displayed much in the way of facial expression, but now, it wasn’t quite so hard to decipher. Harry grimaced, looking away. He didn’t want pity.

Harry set his gaze resolutely forward as Snape escorted him into his bedroom, directing him to sit on the bed.

“Please wait here for a moment – do not leave the room – and I will return momentarily,” Snape said in a level tone.

Harry nodded and stared at his hands, which were folded neatly on his lap. There was a silent pause, where Snape seemed to want to say more, but he then simply turned and left the room, closing the door behind him halfway.

Harry examined the inside of his wrist. All that remained of the… _incision_ was a faint white line. Yes, that sounded good. Incision. A detached, formal way of expressing what he’d _really_ done. He was _not_ out of control. His actions had been planned, calculated, and if not for Snape…

_But is that really true? I made it easy for him to stop me. I left the door unlocked, and the light on, and I didn’t even fight him when he started healing it. True, he could’ve done it anyway, but still, it’s like I_ wanted _him to find out. Did I?_

Harry looked up as Snape re-entered the room. He was holding a small glass bottle filled with a thick, deep purple substance.

“Dreamless sleep,” Snape said quietly. “Normally, I would not encourage its use; however, I believe this is a time where an exception can be made.” He handed the bottle to Harry, who took it while avoiding Snape’s gaze.”

_He thinks I’m a basket-case that needs to be drugged. And he’s right._

Harry crawled under his covers, and, without further hesitation, removed the cork and drained the bottle, almost immediately beginning to feel its effects.

_It’s interesting how quickly potions take effect. Not like normal medicine_ , Harry thought drowsily as he flopped back into his pillows, barely noticing Snape pulling the empty bottle out of his hand. Through drooping eyelids and rapidly clouding vision, he could just make out the hazy image of Snape, now seated on a chair near the wall.

_He didn’t leave…_ was Harry’s last vague thought before he drifted off.

***

Harry awoke slowly the next morning, feeling a bit groggy. He squinted at the clock, rubbing his eyes, finding it to be nearly half-past ten.

_I never sleep this late. Must be the potion. Or being awake for half the night._

A bit unsteadily, Harry made his way to the bathroom. He blinked when he saw the spotless floor, rug restored to its proper place.

_Snape must’ve cleaned up while I was asleep… my penknife!_

Harry searched the floor frantically, and then the rest of the room, even the shower, but it wasn’t there.

_Snape_ , Harry realized. _He took it._

Harry calmed slightly. Snape probably hadn’t wanted to leave it lying around. He’d give it back, he had to.

_I’ll ask him, first thing._

Harry exited his room, walking towards the stairs, and he stopped in his tracks when he heard Snape’s voice.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry turned quickly to see Snape approaching from the other end of the hallway. Harry felt suddenly awkward. After all that had transpired the night before, it was difficult to look the man in the eye.

_I need the penknife. Just get a grip and ask him._

Harry took a deep breath and peered up at Snape, who was looking down at him, his face unreadable.

“Uh, sir?” Harry’s voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Do you have my… er...?” He made a vague motion with his hand, unable to finish his sentence. Not after what had happened.

Snape inclined his head. “I do.” He pulled it out of his robes. “However-“

Disregarding whatever Snape was about to say, Harry reached out for it, but the man shook his head, holding the knife close to his chest. “Harry, I’m sure you understand why I cannot give this back to you at the present time.”

Harry bit his lip. Yes, he understood, but he _needed_ it. It was the only weapon he had, the only thing he really had of his own.

_I don’t care. I need it. He has no right to take it from me._

Good. Now Harry felt appropriately angry. It was so much easier than the tangle of overwhelming emotions he’d been grappling with up until now. The fear, the unpleasant ache in his chest, and the consistent, troubling sense that he was moments away from crying again all faded away in the face of his frustration. 

“Sir, I need it. Please.” Harry refused to sound desperate, or to beg. He’d said his piece, and he’d even said please. He wasn’t begging.

Harry saw a glimmer of something like sympathy in Snape’s eyes, but the man shook his head again. “I do understand why you feel you require it, but it would be entirely remiss of me to allow you to be in possession of such an object at this time.”

“Please, sir, I won’t do… that again. I just really need it.” Harry hated the pleading tone that had crept into his voice. But, damn it, he needed the penknife.

Snape exhaled slowly, and Harry could see his jaw tighten. “It is not my intention to permanently confiscate the blade from you. It will be returned to you when we _both_ feel that you can handle it responsibly.”

Oh. So he wasn’t keeping it for good. But how long would it take for Snape to believe that Harry could be responsible? Years, probably.

_I need it now. Give it back._

“But I-”

“Do you truly believe yourself to be in danger here?” Snape cut in.

Harry thought for a moment.

_Only when Dumbledore’s here. Otherwise… I don’t know. Anything can happen, I need to be prepared._

Snape seemed to take Harry’s silence as an affirmation.

“Harry, you are entirely secure here. No one who wishes you harm has the ability to pass through my wards. I, and I alone, determine who may or may not enter the property.”

_He lets Dumbledore in whenever he pleases. But clearly, Snape trusts him, though I can’t imagine why._

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry looked up, chewing his lip. “I just…” he mumbled, his voice trailing off.

Snape raised his eyebrows, waiting for Harry to continue, but when he did not, Snape blew out a breath. “Do you by now trust that _I_ do not mean you harm?” 

_Yes,_ Harry realized, _I do trust that he won’t harm me._

“Y-yes, sir.”

Snape looked slightly relieved. “I will say this: if anyone who steps on to this property, or any person at all, for that matter, attempts anything untoward, I will personally ensure that said individual exists solely to regret it.” He reached out and cupped Harry’s chin in his hand to tilt up his face in the same manner he had the previous night. “You are under my protection, and I do not shirk my duties. Ever.”

Harry stared back at Snape, wide eyed. Apparently satisfied that he’d gotten Harry’s attention, the man continued. “At the present time, my duties include protecting you from _yourself.”_

The urge to cry resurfaced once more, but Harry shoved it back fiercely, pulling out of Snape’s grip and turning his face away.

_He cares. He really does. I don’t know why, but he does._

“Am I understood?” Snape said in a stern tone, turning Harry by the shoulders once more to face him.

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered.

Snape was silent for a moment, regarding Harry carefully. “Good. Come join me for breakfast.” He turned and walked down the stairs toward the kitchen, Harry following several paces behind.

“You didn’t eat yet?” Harry asked tentatively as they sat at the table.

“I have not yet had the chance.”

Because of Harry, probably. Because he was _weak_ and couldn’t keep it together and-

“Mr. Potter,” Snape’s smooth voice cut in. “Do you plan on eating at any point in the foreseeable future?”

Harry nodded, head down, and proceeded to fill his plate, barely noticing what he was serving himself.

_He probably thinks I’m an immature nutcase. I cried all over him. I let him_ hug _me, like a needy little… Now he definitely won’t want to deal with me anymore. I completely lost it, I let myself go too much. That’s not okay. It’s weakness. I’m weak. A weak little baby._

Harry gripped his fork with unnecessary force, all but smashing his food into a pulp with the prongs.

“Harry.”

Harry looked up reluctantly to focus on Snape’s shirt collar.

“Do you believe, upon the day’s previous events, that I am inclined towards judging you in an unfavorable light?”

_Yeah, that sounds about right._

Snape, of course, knew what Harry was thinking. He lowered his head slightly to meet Harry’s gaze. “You are laboring under a misapprehension. I am in no way judging you, nor has my assessment of you been in any way negatively impacted by your actions.”

“Why _not_ ?” Harry burst out, then almost immediately froze. He could have kicked himself. What had he been thinking, yelling at Snape _again_?

“Harry.”

Harry flinched at the man’s tone and the inexplicable absence of anger in it, feeling undone. He watched Snape anxiously, who’d opened his mouth to speak again.

“Only the simple-minded and ignorant would dare judge another for their methods of coping with pain,” Snape said harshly.

Harry stared.

“Considering the suffering I’ve no doubt you have undergone, I am more inclined toward admiration of your forbearance than judgment of your attempt to… escape.”

Harry couldn’t help it; his jaw dropped.

Good,” Snape said softly. “I have your attention.” He pressed his palms flat on the table and leaned closer. “I am well-acquainted with the emotions that may lead to the drastic measures you have felt it necessary to turn to." 

Harry clenched his fists on his lap, unable to look away even if he wanted to.

"The knowledge that I possess puts me in a position to provide you with the help you need, if you would but allow me.” Snape’s tone had grown sharper, and steadily louder, and his face was mere inches away from Harry’s.

“I…” Harry whispered. His eyes were darting rapidly left to right, his instincts screaming _danger_ . He ignored those feelings. Snape wasn’t lying; this was for real. Snape wanted to help, Snape _cared_ , for whatever unfathomable reason he had.

Snape reached out a hand to cover Harry’s, which was now resting on the table, slackened. “You need not say anything,” he said quietly. He let go of Harry’s hand and rose from his seat. “I prefer not to leave you alone, at present, so join me in my office while I work. I have books stored there that will undoubtedly pique your interest.”

Snape flicked his wand to clear the table and swept out of the room. Harry followed him into his office, where the man conjured an armchair not unlike the one Harry often used in the library. Snape then sat at his desk, beginning his work, for which Harry was grateful. It seemed that Snape knew that he needed his space. Once he selected a few books that looked interesting and curled up in the chair, Harry felt almost calm. However odd it was, he felt safe here with Snape.

Safe enough, apparently, to begin nodding off after an hour or so of reading. A few times, Harry managed to snap himself back to awareness after feeling his head slowly tilting to the side of its own volition and his eyes drooping. He could only fight it off for so long, though, and he eventually fell asleep completely.

And he dreamed.

_It feels familiar, as though he’s been here before but forgot, or buried the memory away. He is in his cupboard, in bed, but he’s hovering above it, ever so slightly._

_“Harry…” a voice whispers. It sounds distant, but not as though it’s far away. It’s close, so very close, but he can’t quite reach it._

_He blinks his eyes open several times, and when he squints, he can just make out the visage of a young woman with a shock of red hair. He can’t say for sure, but it looks like she’s smiling. A smile that’s for him, and him alone._

_And then there’s a flash of blinding green light, and a scream, a terrible, agonized scream that carries many layers of meaning, more words within it than if they had been spoken. He feels an awful, searing ache in his chest, not physical, but so much worse. Because he knows what it means, that green light, that scream. He knows it means the indescribable loss of something so very primal, so very needed, that he just might fade away in its absence._

_But then he feels something else, something powerful enough to briefly overshadow the unbearable ache inside of him. It is fierce, it is warm, and it is older than time. He can see it plainly before him; as the red-haired woman steps into the path of that light, the horrid green light, she leaves something behind. It is her pain, and her sorrow, but it is also certainty. Certainty in her choice to walk forward instead of back, to throw herself into the light, because it is for her son. She will do everything for him, give everything to him, she will watch the world burn to ashes if it means he will live, and be happy, even if she will not. It is love, and it keeps him alive._

Harry woke quite suddenly at the sensation of a gust of cold wind brushing his face. His eyes shot open, but, oddly enough, he wasn’t alarmed. He squinted at Snape, who was standing several feet away and holding his wand loosely at his side.

“I thought it best to wake you, or you might find it difficult to sleep tonight.”

Harry blinked several times, his vision oddly blurred. When he reached up to rub at his eyes, his hand came away wet. He stared at it for a moment. Had he been crying in his sleep? He tried to wipe away the residual tears with his sleeve surreptitiously, but there was no way Snape hadn’t noticed.

He straightened in his seat, clearing his throat, and chanced a glance at Snape. The man was staring at him, but he made no move to comment.

“Did you just cast a spell on me?” Harry asked quickly, hoping he didn’t look as disconcerted as he felt.

The man nodded, storing his wand in his robes. “It was a modified version of the Ventus Spell, which is designed to produce a powerful gust of wind. I thought it the most efficient way to wake you.”

Harry nodded, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. “Is it- is it time for lunch?” he asked.

“Just about,” Snape said.

As Harry trailed behind Snape to the kitchen for lunch, he cast around, a bit desperately, for another question to ask, in the hopes of putting off the imminent conversation he knew he’d have to have with the man at some point.

“How do broomsticks work, sir?” Harry asked, after swallowing a bite of food. He’d just spent the last several hours engrossed in a book about magical sports, and he had been wondering.

Snape’s lips twitched slightly, as though he knew what Harry’s game was but was willing to play along. “I suppose you are asking how broomsticks function in terms of physics?” 

Harry nodded.

“Well, have you drawn any conclusions on your own, Mr. Potter?”

Harry narrowed his eyes in thought. He’d considered the functionality of airplanes, originally, but just as they hadn’t explained the Hover charm, they didn’t explain brooms, either.

_No, brooms move differently, and they’re built differently, too._

Harry frowned, shaking his head. 

Snape leaned forward slightly. “I would say that broomsticks move in a manner most similar to rockets.”

Harry furrowed his brow. How did that make sense? Rockets only ever moved at high speeds, unlike brooms, which could apparently move at varying speeds, as well as hover in the air, unmoving. He chewed his lip.

“I presume you are aware of the mechanics of rockets?”

Harry tilted his head. “Maybe a little.”

“Explain what you know.”

“I know that rockets are propelled by, er, high-pressure gas, I think,” Harry said, straightening his back.

Snape inclined his head. “Correct. It is my understanding that rockets move by Newton’s third law of equal and opposite reactions. The rocket engine forces high-pressure gas in one direction, causing the rocket to accelerate in the other direction.”

Harry nodded.

“Broomsticks work in much the same way. The magic stored within the broom is released through its bristles, which expand outward similarly to a rocket. The released energy therefore propels the broom forward.”

“How is the magic stored in the broom? Is there a spell?” Harry asked.

Snape cocked his head slightly, looking thoughtful. “Broomsticks designed for flight cannot be made by just anyone. The development of broomsticks requires extensive knowledge and skill."

“Do you know how?” Harry asked.

“Are you perhaps interested in pursuing a career in broomstick development, Mr. Potter?” asked Snape, looking a bit amused. By Snape’s standards, anyway.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, I was just curious.”

Snape quirked his lips. “I do not possess extensive knowledge on the subject, nor do I own many books on the topic, however, perhaps we can procure one for your use.”

Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. He swallowed hard, looking down. “Thank you.”

Snape cleared his throat, and Harry looked up again. Snape seemed to be on the verge of speaking; weighing his words, perhaps. “Would you…,” the man began, “perhaps like to gain some practical experience in that area?”

“You- you have a broom, sir?” Harry asked, holding his breath.

Snape inclined his head. “Indeed I do. Would you like to try it for yourself?”

_That would be the coolest thing ever. Would he really let me?_

Several memories rose, unbidden, of offers made available, only to scorn Harry for his gullibility in believing that they were genuine…

_You want dinner? Well, you won’t be getting any._

_Would you like to be let out of the cupboard? Too bad._

Harry shoved the memories away forcefully. Snape wasn’t like that. Snape had never said anything he hadn’t meant, for good or for bad. Not to Harry. 

Harry looked at Snape, who was awaiting his response, though his expression was unreadable.

“I would like that, sir.”

Snape waved his wand, and Harry couldn’t help jumping when a broomstick zoomed through the doorway into the man’s hand.

“Very well,” he said briskly. “If you will join me outdoors…”

Harry followed Snape outside, then took the broom from Snape’s proffered hand. He examined it, turning it in his hand delicately.

“I’m afraid my broomstick is rather timeworn,” Snape said gruffly. “Most children today tend to hanker after the latest models.”

_There are models of broomsticks? That’s just… strange._

Harry turned toward Snape. “How do I…?”

Snape waved a hand. “I suggest you simply do what comes naturally. I suspect you will have no trouble.” Snape’s voice sounded a bit hard, and Harry chewed his lip nervously. Snape seemed to notice this and gave Harry a gentle pat on the back.

“Go.”

_Do what comes naturally. Okaaay._

Harry swung a leg over the broom, pushed off from the ground, and shot up into the air at an alarming speed.

_This. Is. Amazing._

As Harry zoomed through the air, he felt a jolt of pure joy rip through him. He had never felt such an emotion before. This was different; an entirely indescribable experience. He didn’t have to think, or to try. It felt as though he and the broom had become one, and he flew as though he’d been born to do so.

A wide grin blossomed across his face, his facial muscles feeling oddly tight from lack of use. He laughed; a loud, joyous sound that he’d _never_ heard come from his own mouth.

Harry dived, rose, twisted and turned, flying through rays of sunlight that peeked through wide, fluffy clouds.

He felt as though everything that had been wrong with his life, wrong with _him,_ had been left behind on the ground far below. He wasn’t the unwanted burden passed around and shoved away. He was just Harry, a wizard boy flying through the air with an ability that was his birthright.

Up here, nothing mattered at all except him and the broom. Here, he was strong and capable, far from anything or anyone that meant to hurt him. Zooming through the air, magic crackling around him, Harry was unencumbered. He was free, if just for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: recovery is not a linear process


	14. Fight or Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry had once read that a hormone called adrenaline activated the fight or flight reaction in response to perceived danger, and in that moment, a person was driven by pure instinct. Animal instinct.
> 
> Incidentally, it had explained quite a bit about why Harry often felt strangely panicky at seemingly random times.

Severus felt somewhat conflicted as he watched Harry take off. He’d been hesitant to allow the child to fly, and not least because of his recent suicide attempt. Yet that hadn’t been enough to stop him from giving the child this one good thing among all the mistakes he’d made with the boy. Even if seeing him fly reminded Severus of James Potter, in all his glory, zooming across the Quidditch field as if he owned the place.

But the child was not James Potter. Yes, he looked uncannily like his late father, and he’d clearly inherited his skill on a broomstick as well, but he was Harry, a boy who hadn’t let himself be broken, no matter how close he’d come. A child with a keen mind and wit that often took Severus by surprise.

His eyes were following the child carefully, wand at the ready lest the child attempt a dangerous maneuver, yet a distant noise still managed to startled him. After a moment, he realized what it was.

The child was laughing.

Severus felt a rush of warmth in his chest upon hearing it. His actions alone had given the boy a chance to really be a _child_ , if just for a short while. In that moment, any lingering unpleasant thoughts relating to James Potter melted away. The child was happy, and if flying gave him such joy, Severus would not hesitate to allow the child flying time whenever he wished it.

Severus watched Harry fly for another long while, a faint smile hovering upon his lips.

Eventually, the boy landed, far too forcefully, in Severus’ opinion, and he was about to say as much when he saw the child’s face. Harry was smiling; grinning, really, his eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, and hair windswept. He handed the broomstick to Severus, with the all too rare smile lighting up his face.

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry breathlessly, brushing his tousled hair out of his eyes.

Severus quirked his lips at the child, which had Harry smiling shyly back. “I take it that you have enjoyed that, Mr. Potter?” said Severus, his gruff tone hiding his discomfort at the child’s obvious gratitude.

Harry nodded rapidly; the child-like gesture heartening Severus more than he cared to admit.

“Yes, sir. It was… incredible.”

“I am glad to hear it; you certainly took to it quite well.”

The boy looked down, clearly uncomfortable with the praise, but still smiling, nonetheless. Severus motioned toward Harry to follow him, and he led the way inside, broomstick in hand. He noticed Harry looking on a bit wistfully as he stored the broomstick in its cupboard, and he turned to face the child in preparation to rectify that.

“You will be allowed to make use of the broom again; there is no reason why you should not be.”

The boy stared, with a more open expression of surprise than Severus had seen on his face before. “R-really, sir?” 

Severus raised his eyebrows at the boy. “Certainly. I did not make that offer for my health. I rarely fly, so for all intents and purposes, the broom is yours to use.”

Harry swallowed, looking overwhelmed and bit wary. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as though unsure of what to say.

_He fears that I may demand something of him in return,_ Severus realized, feeling a surge of fury at those who had damaged the child so. He was sure not to let his feelings show as not to alarm the boy.

“It causes me no trouble to grant you use of the broom. All I expect of you is to exercise caution– in all your behaviors,” he said pointedly. He felt heartless when the boy flushed and looked away at his statement.

_It had to be said. Regardless of a short respite, the boy is still struggling greatly._

“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled.

“Good,” said Severus. “Come join me in the lab before lunch, if you would.”

Severus set the boy to brew an altered version of the Calming Draught, which was designed to produce a more subtle calming effect than the original formulation and was simpler to brew, keeping a sharp eye on him all the while.

_I will have to speak with him later. It will upset him, surely, to discuss his past, but it is necessary. I simply must be sure to question him in the correct manner. I may lose him all together if I push too hard._

***

_I can’t believe he did that for me,_ Harry thought as he mashed his beetle eyes. _He knew I’d like flying, and I didn’t even have to ask. He just gave it to me for free. He gives me everything for free. And he teaches me potions just because he knows I enjoy it, even though it’s probably an inconvenience for him._

Harry wondered if potions were invented regularly, and if Snape had ever done it.

_Just ask him, no reason not to. He's_ _answered my questions before._

Harry looked up from his beetle eyes toward Snape discreetly. It seemed that the man had paused to allow his potion to simmer, and was brushing a stray clump of hair out of his face.

“Sir?” Harry asked tentatively.

Snape looked up, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

“Have you ever invented any potions?”

“Certainly.”

“What have you invented? When did you start? How-”

Snape let out a huff of breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “I began experimenting in my youth,” he began, looking a bit amused, as though in reminiscence of past events.

“What did you invent, then, sir?”

“I was a rather… vengeful young man, so I set out to exact revenge upon certain individuals who I felt had wronged me. I therefore created a potion meant to induce uncontrollable laughter in the drinker."

Harry bit back a laugh. “Did it work?”

“Seeing that it landed six individuals in the hospital wing, I do believe it did.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Any others?”

Snape looked thoughtful. “I do recall one other, meant to induce severe indigestion.”

“I assume that worked as well, sir?” Harry asked, unable to force back a grin at the thought of what that might entail.

Snape smirked. “I was rather fortunate not to be implicated, considering the fallout.”

_He’s way too good at this to just teach…_

“You do more than teach potions, don’t you?”

“Astute observation, Mr. Potter.”

_Was that a yes?_

Harry looked at Snape inquiringly. “Do you develop potions now?”

Snape nodded, an intent expression on his face. “For many years I have been in correspondence with several potioneers like myself, developing new or improving existing brews.”

_That is such a cool job. I wonder why he teaches… That’s probably too personal, I can’t ask._

“What sort of potions have you worked on?”

Snape paused as he took a moment to raise the flame beneath his cauldron. “Recently, I have been in correspondence with a colleague to develop what we’ve named the Adrenaline Draught, designed to aid in combating severe allergic reactions, particularly in children.” He paused fiddling with the temperature. “Additionally, for the greater part of six years, I and several others have been involved in extensive research on the development of the Wolfsbane Potion, which has been perfected only very recently.”

“What’s the Wolfsbane Potion?” Harry asked interestedly.

Snape finished stabilizing the heat and looked up again. “You are aware that werewolves do indeed exist?”

Harry nodded; in fact, he’d been quite interested to learn that many mythical creatures he had heard of, growing up, did exist.

“The Wolfsbane Potion allows the drinker to keep their human mind upon the transformation.”

“How does it work? In the brain, I mean.”

Snape looked a bit surprised at the question. He studied Harry carefully for a moment, his gaze unusually soft. Harry lowered his eyes, unsure of what was expected of him. He was relieved when Snape spoke again.

“Werewolves, at the time they are bitten, rapidly develop an entirely animalistic area of their brains, which is brought to the forefront at the time of transformation, and, on a lesser scale, when the subject loses control of their emotions while in human form.”

Harry nodded, forgetting entirely about his potion, which was due to be stirred again.

“The Wolfsbane Potion, as a result of the interaction of its various ingredients, primarily inhibits the sympathetic nervous system. You are aware of its mechanics, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded. In primary school, he’d once snuck over to the neighboring high school to hide from Dudley and his gang, and he’d found an anatomy textbook in the deserted science classroom. He’d read that a hormone called adrenaline activated the fight or flight reaction in response to perceived danger, and in that moment, a person was driven by pure instinct. Animal instinct.

Incidentally, it had explained quite a bit about why Harry often felt strangely panicky at seemingly random times.

“Mr. Potter, your potion,” Snape warned.

Harry looked up quickly; he’d left it simmering for far too long, so it was bubbling madly, and the color had darkened considerably. He quickly turned off the flame, stirring rapidly. Once the bubbling had slowed, Harry looked up nervously at Snape. Was he annoyed that Harry had messed up?

Snape seemed quite unconcerned. “A handful of mint leaves will suffice as a cooling agent.”

Harry nodded quickly, obeying, and he was relieved to see that the potion paled and thickened slightly, as it was meant to.

“Bottle the potion, Mr. Potter. I believe we can continue our conversation upstairs. It’s time for lunch.”

Harry did so, then followed Snape upstairs to the kitchen for lunch. Once seated, Harry looked up, eager to continue their conversation. Snape swallowed a bite of food.

“Ah, yes. We were discussing the impact of the Wolfsbane potion on the sympathetic nervous system.” Snape paused to take a swallow of water from his glass. “A chemical messenger, acetylcholine, stimulates the release of adrenaline and noradrenaline. You are aware of what those are?”

“Yes, sir. They’re the fight or flight hormones.”

“Correct. The Wolfsbane potion inhibits the release of acetylcholine, thereby preventing the release of said hormones, which, in turn, inhibits the sympathetic nervous system. You understand why such a process would allow a werewolf to retain their human mind?”

Harry chewed his lip. “I suppose the sympathetic nervous system is very active during transformations, and the new area of their brain is… activated?

“Very good.” 

A thought occurred to Harry just then. “What would happen if a, er, non-werewolf took the potion?”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “A purely hypothetical query, I hope?”

Harry nodded quickly, suppressing a smile.

“Should a non-lycanthrope ingest even a small amount of the Wolfsbane potion, it would send them into a deep coma from which they may never wake, and would certainly permanently damage their nervous system, even if they did.”

_I guess that would happen because the potion needs to be really powerful in order to overcome the wolf brain, so a human brain would be completely overwhelmed by it…_

“Have you worked on any other potions, sir?” Harry asked.

“As you have not yet begun to eat, I believe we can continue this conversation at a later point in time.”

Harry nodded reluctantly, realizing that he hadn’t yet even served himself. He ate quickly, all the while itching to go to the library to research more on the topic they’d been discussing.

***

The rest of the day continued at a surprisingly calming pace. Harry spent some more time in the lab, discussing Snape’s potions work, though Harry took care to pay more attention to his potion while doing so.

Later on, Harry joined Snape in his office to read for a while, as Snape did not want to leave Harry on his own. Harry didn’t object, though it made him feel like an invalid. He continually reminded himself not to feel resentful of the arrangement.

_I did it to myself,_ Harry told himself firmly. _It’s not as though he wants me underfoot at all hours of the day, he’s just doing what he has to. I have no right to complain._

Despite his inner tirade, Harry couldn’t help shifting in his seat, feeling crowded and irritated. It was hard to relax with a book when shut in a small room with another person, even if it was Snape. Every sound seemed amplified, as it often did when Harry felt anxious. The scratching of Snape’s quill sounded like nails raking down a blackboard, and even the ticking of the clock on the wall felt jarring.

Harry ground his teeth and loosened his grip on his book, allowing it to fall unceremoniously to the floor. He winced at the sound.

Snape looked up at the noise, one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I take it you’ve had enough, Mr. Potter?” Snape interjected, not seeming particularly annoyed.

Harry nodded, unconsciously rubbing at his eyes.

“I think it’s time you prepared for bed. I had not noticed the time.”

Harry immediately tensed at that.

_I can’t go to bed. I’ll have nightmares. I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to think._

“Harry.”

Harry looked up, noticing that he’d clutched his arms around his chest, and was rocking back and forth in his chair slightly. He stopped moving, feeling foolish.

“You cannot take a potion tonight,” Snape said slowly. “However, I will assist you with clearing your mind.

He cleared off his desk with a quick wave of his wand, rising from his seat. “Come.”

Harry rose jerkily from his seat, picking up the book he’d dropped and storing it on its shelf. He then followed Snape upstairs, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. At least Snape wasn’t half-carrying him upstairs this time.

When they reached Harry’s room, Snape sat on the chair near the wall, while Harry gathered up his pajamas to change in the bathroom. He emerged a few moments later, teeth brushed and pajama-clad. He climbed into bed, any residual good feelings from the surprisingly enjoyable day he’d had quickly evaporating.

Harry hunched a little when Snape walked over. He wasn’t a little kid; he didn’t need to be put to bed. Even when he had been a toddler no one had ever put him to bed. Snape seemed to disregard Harry’s embarrassment and pushed him back into his pillows.

“There is no shame in accepting help, Harry,” said Snape quietly, backing up a few feet.

Harry looked down, a tight feeling in his throat.

_Why do I keep feeling like I want to cry? I_ don’t.

Harry felt Snape draw a bit closer, reaching out a hand to rest on the back of his head. He leaned unconsciously into the touch, flitting his eyes away when he felt them burn. Taking a slow, deep breath, Harry managed to shove back the tears that had been welling up in his eyes. Snape didn’t comment, for which Harry was grateful. Instead, he spoke in a whisper, talking Harry through the process of clearing his mind.

Slowly, Harry’s recent stressors began to fade away into the back of his mind, and all he was aware of was Snape’s low, soothing voice, and the gentle, calming sensation of Snape’s hand on his head.

Harry drifted off into a deep, untroubled sleep.

***

It was some time after breakfast the following day, and Harry was curled on his chair with a thick book. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find that, today, Snape had allowed him to be in the library unsupervised.

_Though he probably has monitoring spells and stuff on me, just in case I…_

Harry forced back his irritation at being treated like a child.

_I don’t want to think about that._

Harry had only read a few more pages when he heard the library door open. He looked up quickly to see Snape standing by the doorway.

“Am I late for lunch?” Harry asked, glancing up at the clock. Snape shook his head, moving closer.

“No, lunch is not for a while yet. I would simply like to speak with you.”

Harry felt his stomach lurch. This was it. Snape was going to ask him all the questions he couldn’t answer, and then he’d have to _remember_ everything. And the worst part was, he couldn’t object.

“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled, setting down his book and rising to follow Snape out of the room. They entered the sitting room, and Snape pointed Harry toward the couch while he drew up a chair to sit facing Harry. Harry pushed back into the cushions, hunching his shoulders and unconsciously picking at the skin around his cuticles. He jumped slightly when he felt Snape gently pry his fingers apart. He looked up.

“This is not an interrogation, Harry.”

Harry nodded, attempting in vain to relax his shoulders.

“I am aware that you would prefer not to speak,” Snape said in a low voice. “But we must.” The man released Harry’s fingers and leaned back into his chair.

Harry nodded, biting down on his lip.

_I don’t wanna talk, I don’t wanna talk, I don’t-_

“Harry.”

“Yes, sir?”

“It is not my intention to cause you discomfort. I will only be asking you what I believe is vital for me to be aware of. If you feel you cannot answer, I will not insist you do so.”

Harry’s stomach unclenched a little. So he wouldn’t have to fight to keep certain things to himself. Snape wouldn’t insist. But he would try to give the man at least something. He owed that much to him.

“Okay,” Harry said in a slightly wavering voice. “I-I’ll try…”

“That is all I ask,” said Snape quietly. Snape leaned forward in his seat slightly, and Harry forced himself not to shrink back.

“Prior to your arrival here, you resided with your aunt, uncle, and cousin?”

Harry jerked his head in semblance of a nod, eyes on his lap.

_If you don’t count my year long jaunt in the streets…_

“How would you describe your relationship with them?”

“Not very well.”

“Why is that?”

Harry shrugged.

_‘Cause they hated my guts and wanted me dead?_

“We just didn’t like each other.”

Snape seemed to want to ask more about that, but he let it go, at least, for now. “Can you describe your late uncle for me?”

Harry tensed at that. “Large. And loud,” was all he opted to say. 

Snape nodded, his face inscrutable. “Did he take charge of discipline in the home?” 

Harry tensed even further, his breaths quickening.

_I don’t want to answer that. But I have to say something._

“Yes,” Harry answered shortly.

“Harry.” Harry shifted his gaze from his fingernails to Snape’s face. “Can you try to expound upon that?” Snape asked quietly.

“Do the details really matter?” Harry asked tersely.

“They do. As I am in a position of authority over you, it is absolutely vital that I know how you have been treated in the past, so I can avoid erring in my interactions with you. I fear I have already done so out of ignorance.”

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. Could he say anything to Snape? It wasn’t as though Vernon’s questionable methods of discipline would give Snape any ideas. It was clear that Snape didn’t want to hurt him.

_It’s obvious he knows, or suspects, that Vernon liked to push me around. It won’t change anything if I tell._

“Harry?” Snape pressed.

“He… when I messed up, he...” Harry mumbled, the last part of his sentence entirely incoherent.

“Would you care to repeat that, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked, the epitome of patience.

_No, I would not care to repeat that, actually…_

Harry felt himself growing unaccountably angry, and he forced himself not to snap at the man.

_He doesn’t deserve that from me._

“He hit me,” Harry muttered, unable to conceal his frustration. Snape closed eyes, sighing heavily, but he did not seem surprised by Harry’s grudging revelation.

“Do you fear that I will do the same to you?” Snape asked, his face unreadable again.

Harry shook his head. “No. Not really.” Not when he was thinking rationally, at least. When his instincts took over, it was hard to distinguish the man he knew Snape to be from the general image of an imposing, adult male that had been built up in his mind ever since the first time Vernon had taken a swing at him.

There was a momentary pause, where Snape seemed to be weighing his words. He inhaled slowly to speak again. “For the incident that occurred in the library shortly after your arrival, I feel I have not apologized enough,” said Snape, leaning closer to Harry with his hands on his knees. “Under any circumstance, my behavior was reprehensible, but in light of what you have just confirmed for me, I cannot…” Snape’s voice trailed off.

“It’s all right, sir,” Harry mumbled.

Snape shook his head. “No, it most certainly is not. I can assure you, however, that it will not happen again.”

Harry nodded, chewing on his lip.

There was a brief, though tense pause before Snape spoke again. “You say you do not fear me, but considering the incident when I ordered you to face the wall…”

Harry cringed. _Stupid stupid stupid. Why did I have to go and act all weird?_

“Harry?” Harry looked up, realizing that he’d failed to register the rest of Snape’s question. He knew what the man was asking, though.

“It wasn’t you,” Harry whispered. Snape simply looked on patiently, eyebrows raised, compelling Harry to continue.

“I- it- I just don’t like when I can’t see who’s in the room. I thought you were… someone else.”

_Brilliant. How eloquent. I’m sure that explains_ everything.

Harry was relieved to see Snape nod in understanding.

“I… I regret forcing you into a situation which frightened you,” said Snape, his dark eyes boring into Harry’s, willing him to take his words as truth.

Harry wanted to be angry at that comment. He wanted to valiantly deny that he had been afraid, that he had ever even been acquainted with the feeling.

But it was a lie.

He had been terrified. His whole life, really, he had been afraid; fear was the only emotion Harry hadn’t learned to shut away.

“I don’t think you would do what he- what he did. I just wasn’t thinking straight,” Harry said quietly.

Snape nodded slowly. “That is relieving to hear. However, I would prefer to avoid causing such reactions in the future, you understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape leaned back into his chair, steepling his fingers. “Did your aunt ever intervene on your behalf?”

Harry swallowed, and he folded his arms over his chest. He felt as though the room had dropped several degrees. Uncle Vernon had been far more threatening than Petunia, at least, objectively. But Vernon had always been withholding of affection, even with Dudley to some degree. But Petunia had not been. Not with Dudley, with whom she showered with affection, and towards whom her gaze was never anything but adoring. But then she’d shift her gaze to Harry, and her face would transform instantly from loving to disgusted. And it made Harry feel far, far colder than in response to anything Vernon had ever done. It felt like despair.

“Harry?”

Harry shook his head fiercely, his hands trembling. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Harry felt Snape’s eyes on him as he tensed further, eyes trained on his knees.

“You may go.”

Harry fled to his room to curl up under his bed.

Wishing for his penknife.

Wishing for oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it’s long overdue for me to say thank you to everyone who has commented on my fic. It’s been wonderful to receive so much engagement. I’m trying my best to respond to as many comments as I can, but if I haven’t responded to yours, please know that I’ve read it, and it means the world to me.  
> All comments are welcome, whether it’s a keyboard smash, a detailed analysis that’s probably had more thought put into it than anything I’ve written, or a critique. 
> 
> Next up: a letter arrives and a bargain is made


	15. Still Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m taking a stroll with Snape. That’s extremely normal. Snape is absolutely a person I’d picture as a stroll-taker._

Harry and Snape were at the breakfast table when their companionable silence was broken by a loud pop, and a large, reddish-brown owl materialized with an envelope tied to its leg. Harry could do nothing but stare.

“Ah, that must be your Hogwarts acceptance letter,” said Snape, setting down his fork. He reached out to untie the letter from the owl’s leg, which then promptly vanished with another pop.

A rush of anxious excitement rose up in Harry’s chest. He was really going to Hogwarts! At first, it had seemed like a fantastical sort of dream, and later on, when he’d decided to… well, he’d convinced himself that he didn’t want to go, anyway. But now he did.

“Why did the owl appear like that?” Harry asked, reaching for the letter from Snape's proffered hand.

“The enchantments surrounding the property prevents owls from flying in. Professor Dumbledore is aware of that, so it seems he made other arrangements.”

Harry nodded his understanding as he carefully opened the envelope, feeling a brief jolt of anger that arose at the mention of Dumbledore. He shoved the feeling aside as he eagerly unfolded the letter.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL  _ of _ WITCHCRAFT  _ and _ WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

_ (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, _

_ Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards) _

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress 

Harry scanned the supply list with wide eyes. Robes, cauldron, wand… This was  _ insane. _ And completely amazing. He read through the acceptance letter again, turning the thick, yellowish parchment in his hands.

_ Parchment… what century are these people living in…? _

A thought suddenly occurred to Harry, and it felt as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on his head.

How was he supposed to pay for all of this?

_ That's it, then. I can’t go. I can’t pay for supplies, not to mention tuition, which is probably really expensive. _

What had he expected? What had Snape expected? Why would he act as though Harry attending Hogwarts was a given when the man  _ had  _ to know that Harry had no money of his own. It wasn’t as though Snape was going to cover the expense...

Harry swallowed. “I don’t have any money, sir,” he said quietly.

There was a slight pause.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up to see Snape peering at him oddly.

“Surely, you…” Snape’s voice trailed off. Nonplussed, Harry waited for Snape to continue, confusion temporarily overcoming the bitter disappointment that he couldn't quite shove away.

Snape cleared his throat. “Harry, you have inherited a considerable sum of money from your father, who was descended from a long line of well-to-do wizards.”

Harry stared.

“That can’t be,” he said flatly.

“I assure you, I am not mistaken.”

Something in Snape’s voice convinced Harry that it was true. The man had never lied to him, at least as far as he knew, and, in any case, why would Snape lie about this? Harry stared at a discolored spot on the wall, his lips pressed together firmly. He had money. He was actually  _ rich. _ He’d been told all his life what a financial burden he was, and that everything he was given was far more than he deserved, while he’d had piles of money waiting for him somewhere _. _

_ I could’ve bought my own  _ house.  _ I could’ve done anything. Gone anywhere. I could’ve gotten Jade and me out of hell. All of that… for nothing. _

“Harry?” Snape cut into Harry’s internal diatribe, eyebrows raised in askance.

“It’s nothing,” Harry muttered. “I just… I never knew I had money.”

Snape nodded in understanding. “I imagine it must be something of a shock.”

Snape's matter-of-fact tone was enough to quell Harry’s sudden emotional upheaval, if not subdue it completely.

_ Fine. So I was rich all this time and I didn’t know. Get over it, at least I have a way to pay for school. It’s a  _ good  _ thing. _

“Do wizards have banks? Harry asked quickly.

Snape nodded. “Yes, the largest one by far is called Gringotts, which is run by Goblins.”

Goblins?

_ What in the…? _

“I gather that you are surprised to learn of that?” Snape said, looking amused.

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, shrugging.  _ I don’t know why I still get surprised by things like this. _

Snape studied him for a moment. “If you are amenable, I will escort you to Diagon Alley, the nearest wizarding… shopping area, as muggles would refer to it, later this week.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“It is no trouble,” said Snape, waving a dismissive hand as he cleared the table with the wand in his other.

“Now, go fetch the broomstick.”

Harry’s eyes widened, momentarily forgetting his upset. “R-really, sir?”

“Did I not tell you that you may fly again?” said Snape, exasperated.

“Y-yes, sir. I just didn’t…” Harry trailed off.

Snape closed his eyes briefly. “You did not believe me.” The man rose from his seat briskly, brushing some imaginary crumbs from his robes as he strode towards the door.

“For Merlin’s sake, don’t dawdle.”

Harry jumped slightly, then hurriedly fetched the broom and followed Snape outside.

***

_ It’s strange how differently I feel while I’m flying,  _ Harry thought, curled up in the library sometime later.  _ And as soon as I land, it’s back to normal. The bad normal. If I could just live my whole life flying I would be fine. But no, I have to stay down here and put up with everything. _

Harry groaned in agitation as he closed his book. He couldn’t sit here anymore. He didn’t want to do anything, really, except fly. But Snape had made it quite clear that he wasn’t allowed to fly without supervision, and the man was obviously too busy to supervise him.

_ If I could just grab the broom and… No way. He’d kill me. Or, at least, never let me fly again. _

Harry stood up abruptly and made for the door. If he sat here for one moment longer he might just pull his hair out.

_ I’ll go outside, then. He never said I couldn’t. _

But, of course, as soon as he reached the doorway, he heard footsteps. Harry turned quickly to see Snape striding toward him.

_ Is he angry? How did he even know… The stupid monitors, that’s how. Why isn’t he saying anything? _

“I just wanted to go outside, sir,” Harry said, careful to keep his frustration out of his voice. He forced himself to maintain eye contact, refusing to avert his gaze as Snape stared at him as though he were an interesting breed of beetle that he’d just procured for use in one of his more obscure potions.

“Perhaps you’d like to join me for a stroll, Mr. Potter.” Snape finally said.

Well, that took the winds right out of Harry’s sails. Join him for a  _ stroll _ ?

“Er… all right.”

“Good,” Snape nodded, opening the door, and Harry followed him, a bit bemusedly.

The air had cooled significantly since Harry’s flying session earlier in the day, and a breeze tousled Harry’s hair, a sensation that felt oddly soothing. Harry walked alongside Snape in silence for several moments, allowing the fresh air to calm him. It wasn’t like flying, but it was definitely preferable to being shut inside.

_ I’m taking a stroll with Snape. That’s extremely normal. Snape is absolutely a person I’d picture as a stroll-taker. _

“Harry?” said Snape, pausing where he stood.

Harry looked up warily. “Yes, sir?”

Snape inhaled, straightening the cuffs of his sleeve. “I do understand that it is very difficult for you to speak with me about topics concerning your history.”

Harry clenched his fists, staring at the ground. So this was why they were taking a so-called stroll. It should have been obvious.

“Therefore,” Snape continued, tapping Harry’s shoulder to make him look up. “I propose to offer you an incentive, so to speak.”

An incentive? Well, that  _ was  _ interesting.

“I will make time in my schedule to supervise your flying more frequently, if you make a reasonable effort to answer my questions.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “How frequently, sir?”

Snape’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “That would depend on how many questions are answered.”

Harry thought for a moment.

_ This could be worth it. I’m losing my mind, staying inside. But… _

“What if I can’t answer certain questions?”

“Then I will attempt to steer the topic in a direction in which you feel more comfortable,” Snape replied smoothly. “I will still allow you flying time even if you cannot answer any, as I said I would do originally. Yet if you do answer my questions, you will simply have more flying time.”

“And if I say no?” Harry asked daringly. He needed to know all sides of this negotiation. It was only good business.

Snape’s lips twitched. “I would not force you to do so. However, I would be unable to allow you your independence for an extended period of time, as I would have no way of knowing how you are faring.”

_This isn’t really a deal. It’s more of a reward system. If I agree, I get more flying time. If I don’t, I won’t be allowed anywhere alone._ _I suppose he doesn’t have to offer a reward, but he’s trying to make it easier for me. Nice of him, I suppose._

“I’ll accept, sir,” Harry said finally.

Snape inclined his head. “Very well.” He drew in a breath. “Now, if you make an effort at present, I will supervise your flying after dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, chewing on his lip.

_ Just deal with it. It’s just questions, it’s just talking. It can’t hurt me. _

Yet he could not prevent the cold fear from gripping at his chest.

_ It’ll go away when I fly. It’s fine. _

Harry squared his shoulders. He could handle it. He wasn’t scared.

He looked up when Snape cleared his throat. “I will reiterate; this is not an interrogation. If you feel uncomfortable, I will not push you.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered.

He walked alongside Snape reluctantly for several moments more, bracing himself for the coming onslaught.

“Can you describe for me your relationship with your late aunt?” Snape asked in a low voice, slowing his pace slightly.

Harry swallowed thickly. “Nonexistent,” he said stiffly.

“How so?”

“We ignored each other unless she was giving me an order.”

‘Such as…?”

“Chores.”

“What sort of chores did she have you do?”

“Cooking, cleaning, garden work. Stuff like that.” Harry kicked a stray rock, watching as it rolled steadily down the slight incline of the walkway. Interesting. He wouldn’t have noticed the incline at all otherwise.

“How much time was your day spent on performing chores, on average?”

Harry jerked his head up. “Dunno. A while.”

Snape paused in his questioning for a moment, while Harry exhaled slowly, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. His muscles immediately tensed again when Snape spoke.

“What of… recreation? Did you spend time with other children of your age?”

Harry was eternally grateful that he was walking beside Snape instead of sitting across from him. This way, the man could not see his expression.

“I didn’t get on with the kids at school.”

_ I’m not talking about Jade. _

“No? Why is that?”

“They thought I was strange.”

_ If Dudley hadn’t already scared them off... _

“Why do you believe that they thought you strange?”

“Because I wasn’t like them.”

“How so?”

“Dunno. I didn’t talk much in school.”

“Your linguistic abilities were too advanced for them to comprehend, perhaps?” 

Harry sort of smiled. “Something like that.”

“Is that all?”

Harry chewed on the inside of his lower lip. This wasn’t even the hard stuff to talk about, it was just… embarrassing. He forced himself to say something anyway. The more he spoke about the easy things, the more leeway he’d have to avoid talking about everything else.

“I just… I don’t know how to talk to people. I never know what to say.”

“That is understandable,” Snape said after a moment.

Was it? Harry shrugged listlessly. “I didn’t care. And I still don’t.”

“You had a cousin your age, did you not?”

Harry nodded jerkily. “We didn’t get on either.”

There was a momentary pause, where Snape seemed to be weighing his words. Harry walked on in silence, kicking at more stones that came across his path.

“Was your cousin given chores as well?” Snape asked, smoothing the front of his cloak, which had been blown astray by the breeze.

Harry snorted.

_ Dudley, chores? That’s a good one. _

“No,” he said flatly, masking the odd feeling that was rising up in his chest.

_ Dudley’s dead. He was ten, and he died. He didn’t deserve to die. But I don’t feel particularly bad, either. Does that make me a bad person, for not caring? _

“Harry?” Snape prompted.

“He’s dead,” Harry whispered, without meaning to.

Snape sighed, then made a stifled movement, as though he was going to grasp Harry’s shoulder but thought better of it. Good. He didn’t deserve comfort, not when he didn’t care that a kid he’d known had died.

“He’s dead, and I don’t even care,” he bit out, his voice purposefully cold, but not quite hiding the tremor beneath it. Harry forced himself to look up. Snape’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were focused upon Harry’s steadily, not seeming disgusted by Harry’s revelation.

Snape stopped where he stood, reaching out slowly to grip Harry’s shoulder, keeping him in place. Harry didn’t resist. “You did not have a positive relationship with him, nor with any of your relatives. Your response is in no way unusual,” he said firmly.

Harry shrugged, looking away. “Are we done?” he whispered, feeling spent.

“If you wish,” Snape replied, turning to walk back towards the house. Harry followed, relieved.

“Dinner is in an hour. I will supervise your flying after.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Harry sat in the library, attempting to piece together his thoughts. The scattered, confused, irritating thoughts that had been plaguing him since yesterday, when Snape had to go and bring up the Dursleys.

_ Do I care at all that he died? If I didn’t, I wouldn’t even be thinking about it. Proof is, I’m not thinking about Vernon, ‘cause I’m glad he’s dead. That way, I’m safe. From him, at least. Petunia… I don’t know. She probably wouldn’t have cared if  _ I  _ died. But Dudley was just a kid, even if he was an enormous prat. He didn’t really do anything to me. _

Harry rubbed his eyes, worn out. A thought suddenly occurred to him.

_ He was my age and he died. I was supposed to die. He had everything he wanted. Parents who loved him. Money, toys. Friends. It would have been worth it for him to live. Not me, though. So why did I live, while he died? _

But had Dudley really had everything he wanted?

Harry thought back…

_ Harry was nine. _

_ It was another hot afternoon, and Harry had been ordered to paint the garden fence, never mind that he’d done it just four days ago. He figured Petunia just wanted him out of the house. He didn’t mind. It was always better to be outside, even in the heat of the day. _

_ Harry shifted slightly when he heard the familiar shuffle of Dudley’s heavy tread. He braced himself for an onslaught of juvenile insults. But, instead, he heard a sniffle. _

_ Dudley was crying. Real tears, this time, not one of the fake tantrums he threw almost daily. Harry shrugged to himself, and continued with his work. This Dudley was no threat, but, somehow, he was more difficult to ignore. _

_ “You’re lucky, you know.” _

_ Harry turned his head quickly at that. Lucky? Him? That was rich, coming from Dudley. _

_ “Have you been sniffing glue?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised. _

_ Dudley lifted his head, bloodshot eyes glistening with tears. Harry’s comment seemed to fly over his head. _

_ “Dad doesn’t care what you do. For me, I have to… I dunno, do everything he does, or else he’ll hate me, too.” _

_ “He wouldn’t do to you what he does to me,” Harry told him flatly. _

_ Dudley squinted at him. “Maybe he would. He doesn’t like you, so he hits you, so if he didn’t like me, he’d hit me too.” _

_ Harry rolled his eyes inwardly at Dudley’s logic. “But you’re his kid. It’s different,” he responded impatiently, turning back to the fence. _

_ “That doesn’t matter. There are already things he wouldn’t- wouldn’t like about me, if he knew. And he’d try to s-squash it out of me, like he does you.” _

_ Harry stared at Dudley. Trouble in paradise? Who knew? _

_ “How does that make me lucky?” Harry asked, honestly wanting to know. _

_ At that moment, Dudley’s small, blue eyes seemed to harden with a rarely seen spark of maturity. _

_ “Because you know what to expect.” _

_ As Harry mulled that over, the screen door banged open, and both he and Dudley jumped. _

_ “Get back to that painting, boy!” Vernon bellowed. “If you don’t have that done in an hour… Dudley, what are you doing over there?” _

_ Harry turned quickly back to the fence, and Dudley shoved him to the ground, paint splattering everywhere. _

Harry closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it. Eyes still squeezed shut, he grabbed blindly at the nearest book from the pile on the table, which turned out to be a volume on magical creatures. He flipped it open randomly, needing to focus his thoughts on something else. He skimmed through the pages quickly.

_ Boggarts. Odd creatures. How is it possible that they can detect what a person’s worst fear is? _

What was the purpose of such a creature? Did it really do any good for anyone to face their worst fear if it wasn’t even real?

_ What would a boggart turn into for me? And how can it know what my worst fear is when I’m not even sure myself. _

What  _ was  _ his worst fear? There were many things that could qualify, but did one stand out above the others?

_ Do I even want to know? _

_ I wonder what it would have turned into for Dudley… Probably Vernon hating him like he hated me… wanting to hurt him like… Stop. Just stop. _

Harry shut the book with a loud snap, his mood rapidly plummeting.

_ I can’t do this. I can’t. _

Harry curled up into a tight ball, palms pressed against his face. His heart beat sporadically as he rocked back and forth. He could feel himself shaking.

_ No. No. I need… _

Clenching his hands into fists to stop them from trembling, Harry stood up, slipping outdoors as silently as he could. It was drizzling lightly, and the damp grass flattened beneath his feet as he walked. Uncurling his fingers to collect the raindrops, Harry paused where he stood. 

He searched the ground for some small object, anything, and spotted a few stray rocks. Leaning down, he grabbed the smallest one and set it down on the ground apart from the others. He focused carefully on it, as though trying to physically shove his stress straight into it. Only intending to make it hover in the air, he jerked back in shock when the stone, after rising a few inches into the air, shattered entirely.

_ I just shattered a stone. I must’ve been more stressed than I thought. Okay. That works too, I guess. Now, let’s see if I can do that again. _

Harry focused whatever energy he had remaining on another stone, but instead, sent it flying into a nearby tree. He watched with interest as it bounced off the trunk and landed, partially concealed, into the wet grass.

Harry jumped and spun around when the door banged open. Snape exited the house, face tight, as though expecting the worst.

_ Monitors. Stupid things. What good are they if they can’t tell the difference between a knife and a rock? _

Harry watched warily as Snape took in the scene, eyes traveling from Harry, who was breathing hard, to the shattered bits of stone scattered across the grass. The lines on the man’s face loosened slightly.

Harry then noticed that Snape was clutching a cauldron stirrer, pale gray potion residue dripping from it.

Snape sighed with exasperation.

“Come with me, I need a good hour to complete this potion without the threat of my imminent demise by heart failure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the Floo Network can be rather unpredictable


	16. A Detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How could he have let the boy out of his sight? He was well aware of the risks, and he knew, quite acutely, what the boy was going through. The child could run into anything, he could get snatched off the streets, even run away. The boy was far too clever for his own good, and a danger to himself…

Harry stared skeptically into the jar of white powder that Snape had handed him. He was supposed to toss this powder into the fire and  _ stand  _ in it? As if there was nothing life-threatening about that?

“I assure you, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, sounding impatient. “The Floo Network is one of the most mainstream magical methods of travel in existence. You have nothing to be concerned about.”

Harry just looked up at Snape warily, refusing to take a step closer to the ominous looking flames. Sure, he’d read about the Floo, but actually using it was an entirely different story. Though he had seen Dumbledore use it, he wouldn’t put it past the man to have orchestrated the entire event for some incomprehensible reason.

_ Death by fire is probably the worst way. _

Harry swallowed hard, glaring at the fire distrustfully. 

“If I use it first, will you trust its safety?” Snape offered, albeit exasperatedly. He didn't seem angry, though, which was enough for Harry to slowly exhale, then nod,  thrusting the jar in the man's direction. Snape grasped it, plucking a pinch of powder from the jar before setting it back on the mantel. He then tossed the powder into the fire, which immediately turned bright green, and Harry backed up slightly as Snape stepped into the fireplace.

“Diagon Alley,” the man said clearly, and he disappeared in a flash of green flame.

_ Okay. He didn’t burn up, apparently. So I just do what he did. Right. This is insane. _

Harry shrugged, then pinched a bit of Floo powder from the jar. He tossed it into the flames, which had since returned to their normal state, and they glowed green yet again.

_ Here goes nothing. _

Harry took a deep breath, then stuck the toe of his shoe into the fire. When it didn’t appear to be consumed, he stepped into the fireplace, half-braced for unbearable heat and horrible pain. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the flames felt like little more than a warm breeze.

_ I won’t even bother to try and figure out how this makes any sort of sense… _

Harry opened his mouth to state his destination and accidentally knocked his heel against one of the burning logs. He abruptly inhaled a mouthful of ash.

“D-diag-on All-ey,” Harry choked out, his lungs desperately attempting to expel the ash.

_ I’m screwed,  _ was Harry’s last thought as he was whisked away into a blur of flame and bricks.

***

Harry coughed violently as he rolled out of the fireplace, landing flat on his face in a strange, darkened room. There was no sign of Snape. He pulled himself slowly to his feet, trying to shake off the dizziness and nausea. He swallowed back the rising anxiety.

_ Look at this logically. Obviously, I didn’t say Diagon Alley clearly enough, which is why I’m not there, but what I said sounded mostly like it, so I’m probably somewhere nearby. _

Harry studied his surroundings carefully; it appeared that he had landed in some sort of antique shop. There were odd-looking devices displayed on dusty shelves and tables, and though the room was still and quiet, Harry could sense the subtle magical influences at play. He felt a bit tempted to fiddle with some of the objects, but he abstained.

_ Yeah, brilliant idea, go touch creepy magical devices and see what happens. Best possible way to get myself turned into a toad... _

Harry inhaled sharply when he heard the door of the shop open with a ring. He backed carefully toward the far corner of the room, concealing himself behind some very tall stacks of untitled books, holding his breath.

“Ah, Lucius…” Harry heard a gravelly, hoarse voice say.

_ I didn’t know wizards smoked, too… And Lucius? Did I just walk into a Shakespearean novel? _

“A pleasure…” There was a faint rustle, which Harry assumed was the sound of sleeves brushing together as the men shook hands.

“I have come to see about acquiring the final products of my collection, if I may, Mr. Burke?” said a high, aristocratic voice.

“I believe that can be arranged…”

Harry heard footsteps growing steadily louder, and he pushed back more firmly into his corner.

“Touch nothing, Draco,” the aristocratic man, Lucius, said sharply.

Harry heard the faint tread of lightweight footsteps, and he realized that he was not the only child in the room. Unable to help himself, he shifted over slightly as to partially unblock his view, and he saw the backs of two men leaning over something on the desk in front of them, one slight and dark-haired, the other tall and thin with long, white-blond hair. A similarly blond-haired boy who looked to be about Harry’s age was examining a rather garish piece of jewelry with his hands clasped behind his back, a sullen expression on his face.

_ I suppose he’s Draco, the aristocrat’s son. What sort of name is that? Were his parents intentionally trying to make him the target of ridicule? _

The boy suddenly looked up, and Harry could only stand there, frozen in place, when their eyes met.

***

Severus stepped neatly out of the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron, brushing soot off his robes. Ignoring the other occupants of the pub, he stepped to the side, waiting for Harry to come through.

As his wait crept slowly from two minutes to three, then five, it became increasingly obvious that he’d made a profoundly imbecilic error in judgement in assuming the boy would successfully manage his first Floo trip on his own.

_ Considering his maturity, it is so easy to forget how inexperienced he is with the wizarding world. I cannot afford to make such mistakes… I must examine the monitors to locate the boy, though they will likely prove to be useless, as they were not designed to function in locations outside of the property, due to my utter idiocy… _

Severus waved his wand in a sequence of complex motions, his fears proving to be correct. He could not locate the child from where he was.

_ The monitors are tied to the property; I must return there to adjust them… _

Seeing that it was his only viable option, Severus shoved a knut into the slot near the jar of Floo powder, grabbed a pinch, and was spinning through chimneys within seconds, all the while cursing the time he’d wasted, as well as the anti-Apparition wards on his home which preventing him from arriving faster.

How could he have let the boy out of his sight? He was well aware of the risks, and he knew, quite acutely, what the boy was going through. The child could run into anything, he could get snatched off the streets, even run away. The boy was far too clever for his own good, and a danger to himself…

***

Harry stared into the boy,  _ Draco’s, _ gray eyes, unsure if he should remain where he was, run, or throw something. The blond-haired boy’s eyes darted toward the adults, then back to Harry.

“Draco,” Lucius suddenly called out. Draco jumped, turning quickly to face the other end of the room.

“Yes, father?” he drawled, the very picture of well-bred propriety.

“Mr. Burke and I will be going to the store room for several moments. Can I trust you to remain here alone?” Lucius asked sternly.

“Yes, father.”

Harry heard the two men’s footsteps growing faint, and the boy turned back to face Harry’s corner.

“One would think I had planned for that,” Draco muttered, shifting away some of the books concealing Harry.

_ What am I so afraid of? He’s just a kid, like me. He isn’t even much bigger than me. _

Harry stepped out from behind the stacks of books, forcing an indifferent expression on his face.

“And who might you be?” the boy asked, with the air of a person well-accustomed to receiving answers.

Harry set his jaw. “What’s it to you?”

“My father practically owns this shop,” Draco huffed. “Having the place infested with street urchins does nothing for business.”

Harry knew he was supposed to be affronted, but he just felt amused. “Did your dad feed you that line, or do you come up with pretentious one-liners on demand?”

Harry hadn’t known a face could change colors so quickly. The boy’s pale face darkened red with anger at a speed akin to a traffic light. “Do you know who I  _ am? _ ” the boy asked with a poor attempt at snobbery, nose in the air.

Harry just raised his eyebrows, his facial expression speaking for itself.

“I suppose that’s unsurprising,” Draco sniffed, “considering your obviously uncultured upbringing. One cannot expect those of lesser status to be well-versed in the names and faces of higher society.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he snorted.

“Is something  _ funny? _ ” Draco sniped.

Harry rolled his eyes. “The fact that you seem to be under the impression that you represent this so-called higher society, perhaps?”

Draco squared his shoulders. “Well, I imagine you wouldn’t qualify for acceptance to Hogwarts, but if you did, you’d see the influence the Malfoy name carries at the most prestigious school of magic in Great Britain.”

He’d have to go to school with this prat? Fantastic.

Harry couldn’t help but shoot back. “Generally speaking, people who carry influence don’t need to talk about it so much.”

Draco sniffed again, though he couldn’t quite pull off the sophisticated pose he was angling for. “Well, my father is a senior member of the Board of Education, and what with Professor Severus Snape being a close family friend and mentor, I’m guaranteed preferential treatment… ”

Harry physically held back a jerk of surprise. Severus, as in Snape? This absolute  _ twit  _ knew him? Had a relationship with him?

It took Harry a moment to identify the feeling rising in his chest. Betrayal. And jealousy.

_ Why would I feel that way? It’s not like Snape is my... He’s just… well, I don’t know what he is to me, but I trust him enough to tell him things I never told anyone. _

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” Draco demanded.

Harry quickly regained his composure, complete with a disdainful raise of his eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know. Perhaps your voice shares the effects of a mild sedative.”

For a moment, Draco looked stumped.

_ Does he not know what a sedative is? I win. _

Draco took a haughty breath, but before he could respond, both he and Harry froze when they heard the approaching footsteps of the adults. Without pausing for a breath, Harry was out the door before Draco could so much as blink.

***

Back in the sitting room beside the fireplace, Severus’ eyes were squeezed tightly shut in concentration as he incanted. The focus and exertion it took to readjust these particular monitors when unable to locate the subject was notoriously draining.

Finally, beads of sweat running down his face, the job was done.

Harry was in Knockturn Alley, though he could not determine the exact location.

_ Wonderful. Of all places to end up… The very dredges of society, predators... _

Severus sprinted across the grounds and through the enchantments surrounding his property. He Disapparated, half-convinced that his trip was sped up by his utter panic.

***

Harry stumbled out into the street, his eyes darting warily back and forth. It was very dimly lit by the occasional gas lamp set outside deserted storefronts, the darkness only adding to the grimy, sinister feel of the area. Harry had the impression that there was something heavy, almost palpable, in the air that sucked away most of the light that the lamps did emit. The familiar, well-earned street instincts began to take over as he glanced around carefully for potential threats, his senses on overdrive.

_ Well, I guess the next step is to find my way to Diagon Alley, which hopefully isn’t too far… _

For whatever reason, Harry did not feel nearly as anxious as he would have expected to be.

_ This is the first time I’ve been on my own since I got to Snape’s house… _

Despite the foreboding surroundings, Harry had missed his independence. Being told when to eat and not to dangle from tree branches, talking about his feelings… that was pretty foreign to him. But this, navigating the streets and keeping out of sight, was right up his alley. He didn’t need anyone to protect him, didn’t need Snape… 

He walked down the darkened street, scarcely breathing, keeping to corners and trash bins in an effort to conceal himself. At the same time, Harry felt quite calm. He was in control, here. He walked on silently, looking around interestedly, if cautiously.

He stiffened when his eyes caught on a suspicious-looking person of indeterminate gender leaning against a wall. The person flashed their teeth at him, and Harry reached reflexively into his pocket for his penknife.

_ Bloody. Hell. _

The realization of the absence of his penknife slapped Harry squarely in the face. This was _not_ his turf; this was the magical world, where a knife, even if he had it, would offer little protection against an experienced wizard.

Harry shoved away the growing fear, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

_ You’ve lived through much worse than this. Just find a way out of here and keep out of sight. You’ll be fine. _

He’d been moving for barely a few more moments when his reassurances were proven false. Something grabbed onto his sleeve quite suddenly, and he jerked back, swinging around to find what appeared to be an old woman clutching his sleeve with a surprisingly powerful grip. Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes, which glowed unnaturally bright, were partially concealed by a thick curtain of dark gray hair.

“Lost, are you, child?” the woman croaked, her cracked lips twisted into a perverse sort of smile. Harry tried to wrench his arm out of her grasp, but the woman was stronger than she appeared.

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Harry, taking small comfort in the fact that his voice remained steady.

_ Show no fear, show no fear- _

“Nonsense,” the woman crowed. “I’ll show you just where you need to go.”

She yanked Harry’s arm, pulling him along the road. The adrenaline kicked in then; Harry clawed wildly at her hand, and a surge of heat rushed from his fingertips, forcing the woman to release him with a shriek of pain and anger.  Without pausing for a further reaction on her part, Harry bolted in the opposite direction, glancing behind him to see if she was following. It was for that reason that Harry didn’t notice the huge, hulking figure blocking his path until he ran straight into it and was sent flying backwards onto the pavement.

“What’r ya doin' down here, boy?”

Harry looked up quickly, gasping for breath, to see a giant of a man, face half-concealed with bushy, wiry black hair and beard. The man would have been frightening if not for the warmth of his beetle-black eyes and quizzical smile. 

“Can ya talk?” the giant asked. The question might have been offensive, if not for the sincerity of the man’s tone.

Harry exhaled, his breath coming out in a slight laugh of relief. “Yeah, I was just l-lost. Floo powder…”

The man gave a nod of understanding. “Firs’ time, eh? Here, lemme help you.” Without waiting for a response, the giant leaned down to pull Harry up. He actually felt his feet leave the ground until the man set him down.

“So, were ya tryin’ ter get to Diagon?”

Harry nodded, brushing soot from his shirt.

“I can help yeh with tha’. Who’r yeh with?”

“Er… I was with Professor Snape…”

_ Who says he even knows who Snape is, anyway? _

But it seemed he did.

“Ah, P’rfess’r Snape? Clever man, he is. C’mon, can’ be too hard ter track ‘im down.”

The giant gripped Harry’s upper arm to lead him down the road, and Harry didn’t resist. There was something about this man that seemed trustworthy. Familiar, even, as though Harry had known him once, and forgotten.

“I’m Hagrid, by th’ way. Groundskeeper at Hogwarts.” He said that last bit in a proud tone. “What’s yer name?”

“Harry,” he said quietly, brushing soot off his face with his free hand. The giant, Hagrid, stopped suddenly, releasing Harry’s arm to look him in the eye.

“Harry?” Hagrid whispered. He stared into Harry’s eyes for a moment, his own eyes welling up with tears.

Without warning, he yanked Harry into a bone-crushing hug. Harry gasped in surprise, attempting weakly to pull himself away. But he was helpless to free himself from the grip of this huge, soft, giant who was currently clutching him desperately, his chest heaving with great, gulping sobs.  Finally, Hagrid released him, and Harry staggered backwards, rubbing his arms and breathing hard. He looked up to see Hagrid looking at him fondly, black eyes still wet with tears.

“Las’ time I saw yeh, you were jus’ a baby,” Hagrid said in a thick voice, fishing out an oversized handkerchief from a pocket his his enormous overcoat. “You look jus’ like yer dad, an’ you got yer mum’s eyes. Lovely, she was. And both yer parents, such good people…” He paused to blow his nose loudly. “Tiny little thing, yeh were. Fit in the palm o’ my hand…”

Hagrid continued his ramble as he led Harry down the narrow road, passing by rickety sign nailed to a wall which indicated that the area was called Knockturn Alley.

“So, how did yeh end up with P’rfessor Snape, Harry? He pick yeh up from yer relatives?”

Harry tensed at that. “Er… I... I live with him now.”

Hagrid peered down at Harry, an open look of surprise on his face. “Really? How’d tha’ happen?”

Harry shrugged, not really in the mood to discuss the details. Thankfully, Hagrid let it go, continuing to ramble on about the grandness of Hogwarts.

“Great place, Hogwarts is. Loved my time there…”

Harry noticed that the road was gradually widening and brightening; it seemed that they’d finally reached the exit. He then spotted a familiar figure in dark robes moving swiftly in their direction.

***

Severus stepped through the crumbling archway of Knockturn Alley, quickening his stride as his eyes gradually adjusted to the unlit dankness of the alley. Through narrowed eyes, Severus noticed a large, hulking shadow moving toward him, gradually making itself known to be a quite familiar individual.

Hagrid.

_ He knows the alley well, he may be of some help. _

“Hagrid,” said Severus tersely when he was near enough. “Have you-” he stopped when his eyes landed on Harry, small and insignificant, partially hidden behind Hagrid’s huge figure. 

_ Oh, thank Merlin. _

Scanning the child rapidly with his eyes for injury, Severus pulled Harry toward him by the shoulder. “You are unharmed?” he said tensely.

The child nodded, eyes on the ground.

Hand still gripping Harry’s shoulder tightly, Severus glanced back up at Hagrid, who was overlooking the scene with a somewhat bemused, though fond expression.

“Thank you, Hagrid, you have been most helpful,” Severus said, wiping all traces of concern from his face. His hands still felt shaky with the aftermath of his worry

“Arr, it’s no trouble. Bes’ keep a close eye on young Harry, here,” Hagrid replied jovially.

Though he knew Hagrid meant nothing by it, Severus felt both guilty and affronted at the insinuation that he was not properly looking after the boy.

_ Well, I haven’t been doing a particularly good job, have I? Considering what the boy has gotten up to since coming into my care… _

“I most certainly intend to,” Severus said sharply. “We’d best be on our way.” Still gripping Harry’s shoulder tightly, he turned away to lead him down the alley.

“See yeh at Hogwarts, then, Harry, Severus,” Hagrid called from behind. Severus nodded without looking back.

For a few long moments, Severus walked alongside the child in silence, his hand still gripping the child’s shoulder. It was only when the boy attempted to tug himself out of Severus’ grip when he realized just how tightly he’d been clutching the boy.

Severus immediately released Harry, wanting to kick himself.

_ You must be careful with the boy. You cannot be taking your anger at your own negligence out on him. _

Severus sighed, looking down at the boy. Harry looked odd; not particularly frightened or anxious, just… more reserved in Severus’ presence that he’d been in quite a while

_ Perhaps he did run into trouble,  _ Severus realized with a jolt.

“Did anything untoward occur in the alley, Harry?”

“No, sir,” Harry said quietly, looking at the ground.

“You are absolutely sure?” Severus asked, frowning.

“Yes, sir. Nothing happened. I was just trying to find my way out when I ran into Hagrid.”

Severus frowned again, but he said no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the shopping trip that manages to make its way into every fic, but with ice cream


End file.
